/fi-A' 


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A  GALLERY 


OF   FAMOUS 


ENGLISH  MD  AMERICM  POETS 

WITH    AN    INTRODUCTORY    ESSAY    BY 

HENRY    COPPEE,   LL.D. 


pnUSlDF.NT    OF    THE    LEIIIGH    UNIVEHSITV. 


RICHLY    ILLUSTRATED 

WITH   NEAKLY   ONE   HUNDKED   AND   FIFTY   STEEL   ENGnAVlNGS,    EXECUTED   IN 

THE  FINEST  STYLE   OF   THE  ART,   MOSTLY   FROM   ORIGINAL 

DESIGNS   BY   DISTINGUISHED   ARTISTS. 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.    M.    STODDART    &    CO. 

1874. 


Entei'ed  accoriling  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  hy 

.1.  SI.  STODDART   &   CO., 
In  Hie  Office  of  the  I.ilirjiri:in  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


CAXTON     I'RKSS     nv 

T<  II  r  !•  M  >  %    A,   CO.,   !•  II 1  r. A  i)i:  j.rii  I  A. 


CONTENTS. 


JAMES   THOMSON.  ^^^^ 

HYMN    ON   THE   SEASONS  ....  33 

ON    A    COUNTRY   LIFE 40 

WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

ODE   TO   EVENING 45 

DIEGE   IN   OYMBELINE       ....  48 

THOMAS  GRAY. 

ELEGY    WRITTEN    IN    A    COUNTRY 

CnURCHYAED 49 

THE   BARD 5G 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

THE   EESEBTED   VILLAGE        ...  62 

RETALIATION 80 

JAMES   BEATTIE. 

MORNING   LANDSCAPE 87 

THE   HERMIT 88 

THE   SAGE 91 

WILLIAM   COWPER. 

rural  sounds 92 

love  of  nature 94 

lines  on  the  receipt  of  my 

mother's  picture 97 

a  comparison 101 

ROBERT   BURNS. 

tam  o'shanter 102 

MAN   WAS   MADE  TO    MOURN        .      .  Ill 

TO   MARY   IN   HEAVEN       ....  115 

SAMUEL   RODGERS. 

coll'  ALTO 117 

THE   BRIDES   OF   VENICE  ....  121 

DON   GARZIA 126 

GINEVRA 129 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

A   RURAL   HERO 133 

THE   SKATER 136 


PAOK 

ODE  TO   DUTY 138 

TUB   ECLIPSE  OP   THE  SUN    .      .      .  140 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

THE   BATTLE  OP   FLODDEN     .      .      .  144 

THE   CYPRESS   WRE-ATH      ...  1G3 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

HYMN    BEFORE   SUNRISE    IN    THE 

VALE   OF  CHAMOUNI      ....  165 

LOVE 169 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

SUNDAY   MORNING 171 

THE   HOLLY-TREE    .  -  176 

THE   DESERT-THIRST  177 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

HESTER 1.80 

THE   OLD   FAMILIAR   FACES  .      .      .  182 

THE   FAMILY   NAME      ....  183 

THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   THE   BALTIC    .      .  184 

THE   soldier's  DREAM     ....  188 

HALLOWED   GROUND 190 

HORACE  SMITH. 

HY'MK  TO  THE  FLOWERS  .  .  .  195 
ADDRESS  TO  AN   EGYPTIAIT   MUMMY   198 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

I  SAW  FROM  THE  BEACH  .  .  .  201 
WERE   NOT    THE    SINFUL    MARY's 

TEARS 202 

OH  !  HAD  WE  SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE 

ISLE   OF  OUR  OWN 204 

DRINK  TO   HER 205 

JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

RECLUSE 207 

THE   FIELD  OP  THE  WORLD       .      .  209 


2063836 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


REGINALD   HEBER. 


THE   HCXTIXG-PAKTr 

SONG 

!•  SEE  THElt  OX   THEIR   WIXDISG 
WAV        .  

JAMES  GRAHAME. 

THE  SABBATH 

HENRY   KIRKE  AVHITE. 

THE  STAE  OP  BETHLEHEM    .      .      . 
PEESrOXITION   OF   DEATH        .      .       . 

LORD   BYRON. 


PAGE 

211 
214 

214 


21G 


224 
226 


VEXICE      .... 
EVESIXO   TWILIGHT 


MRS.  SOUTHEY. 

THE   pauper's   death-bed  . 
THE   MAUINEr'S   HTMX     .      . 


.JOHN  KEBLE. 


MORNIXG  .      .      . 
CHRISTMAS   DAY 
GOOD   ERIDAY 
EVESING  . 


227 
234 


239 
241 


243 
246 
249 
252 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


THE   CLOUD     .      . 
TO'  A  SKYLARK 


256 
259 


FELICIA   HEMANS. 


WASniXGTOX  S  STATUE      . 
THE  BETTER   LAXD 
THE   RHINE    ... 
A   PARTING  SOXG     . 

JOHN   KEATS 

ODE  ON   A  GRECIAN   URN 

TO   AUTUMN 

SONNET   TO   KOSCIUSKO      . 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL 

THE  SUMMER  MONTHS       .... 

THOMAS   HOOD. 
nuTU   ...  ... 

THE   nEATIl-BKl/ 

THE  nniDOE  of  sioi! 

THOMAS  BAIJINGTON 
MACAULAY 

Tin:    PROPHECY   OF   CAPYS 


264 
265 
267 
269 


270 
272 
274 

276 


280 
281 
282 


:'.-7 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT 
BROWNING. 


loved  once .     .     . 
cowper's  grave    . 

THE   lady's   "yes' 
THE   SLEEP     .      .      . 


PAGE 

.  302 

.  305 

.  309 

.  310 

SEEAPH    and    POET 312 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

THE   BROOK 313 

THE   CHARGE  OF   THE    LIGHT   BRI- 
GADE       322 

WINTHROP   MACKWORTH 
PRAED. 

THE  BELLE  OP  THE  BALL  .   .   .   325 

CHARLES  MACKAY. 

TELL  ME,  YE   WINGED    WINDS   .      .      330 
WHAT   MIGHT   BE   DONE    ....      332 

BRYAN   W.  PROCTER. 

A   PETITION  TO   TIME 333 

THE   hunter's   SONG 334 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 

THE   rOUR-LE.AVED   SHAMROCK        .      336 
DERMOT   o'dOWD      ...  .      .      337 

I   LEAVE   YOU   TO   GUESS  ....      339 

CHARLES  SWAIN. 

VOICES 341 

ROBERT   BROWNING. 

INCIDENT   OF  THE   FRENCH   CAMP        342 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWIN- 
BURNE. 

A   LE.WETAKING 344 

A   CHRISTM.VS   CAROL 346 

WILLIAM   MORRIS. 

SEPTEMBER .      349 

OCTOBER 350 

NOVEMBER  351 

OWEN   MEREDITH. 

(ROBERT   BULWER   LYTTON.) 
A   FANCY 353 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

HIGH     TIDE     ON     THE     COAST     OF 

LINCOLNSHIRE .356 


CONTENTS. 


WILLIAM   C.  BRYANT,  page 

A   FOREST   nVMK 363 

THANATOPSIS 367 

TUE   PAST 371 

FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 

MARCO  BOZZAEIS 374 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 

THE   HEALING   OF   ME    DAUGHTER 

OP  JAIRHS 379 

DEDICATION   HYMN 384 

HENRY  WADSWORTH 
LONGFELLOW. 

THE   BUILDING   OF   THE  SHIP    .      .  388 

THE   CASTLE   BY  THE  SEA     .      .      .  401 

OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 

THE   OLD    MAS   DRE.UIS    ....  403 

THE   DE.4.C0N's   MASTERPIECE     .      .  405 

EDGAR  A.  POE. 

THE    BELLS 410 

THE   HAUNTED    PALACE   ....  414 

GEORGE   p.  MORRIS. 

WOODMAN,  SPAKE  TH.W   TREE   .      .  416 

"LAND  no!" 418 

GEORGE   H.  BOKER. 

A  BALL.ID  OF  SIB  JOHN  FRANKLIN  419 

WILLIAM  G.  SIMMS. 

THE   BROOKLET 42.5 

THE  LOST   PLEIAD 426 

BILLOWS 428 

GEORGE   D.  PRENTICE. 

SABBATH   EVENING 429 

TO   A   LADY 431 

THOMAS   MAClvELLAR. 

PITY,  GOOD  GENTLEFOLKS     .      .      .  432 

A.  C.  COXE. 

THE   heart's  SONG 435 

WAYSIDE   HOMES     ......  436 

JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

THE  SUMMER  STORM 438 

TEE   FIRST   SNOW-FALL     ....  441 


JOHN  GREENLEAF 
WHIXXIER. 

THE   BIVEE  PATH 443 

THE   VANISHEHS 445 

RICHARD   HENRY  STODDARD. 

'448 

449 


THE  SEA 
LEAVES 


WILLIAM  ALLAN  BUTLER. 

THE   BEGGAR 450 

BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

THE   RETURN   OF   SPRING        .      .      .      452 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE. 

THE  OLD   CHAPEL   BELL  ....      454 
LOOKING   OUT   INTO   THE   NIGHT      .      459 

JOHN   HAY. 

JIM   BLUDSO .      .      461 

LITTLE   BREECHES 463 

FRANCIS   BRET   IIARTE. 

THE  TWO  SHIPS 466 

PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TKUIUP UL 

JAMES 467 

JOAQUIN   MILLER. 

KIT   CARSON'S   RIDE 470 

HENRY  TIMROD. 
love's  LOGIC 477 

CHARLES  G.  LELAND. 

THE   fisher's   COTTAGE    ....      479 

WILL  CARLETON. 

GOIN'    home   TO-DAY 481 

JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND. 
(timothy  TITCOMB.) 

eureka 484 

TO  A  sleeping  singer  ....    4S5 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

CHARLIE 486 

HENRY  COPP^E. 
l' ENVOI 488 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Subject. 

besedicti02j  of  the  alr     . 

The  Bakd  

Portrait  of  James  Thomson 

Spring   

Summer 

Autumn      ... 

Winter 

On  a  Countrt  Life 
On  a  Country  Life 
Evening     .... 
Portrait  of  Thomas  Gray 
The  Elegy     .     .     . 
The  Elegy     .     .     . 
The  Bard  .... 
Cenotaph  to  Oliver  Goldsmith 
The  Deserted  Village  .     , 
The  Deserted  Village  .     . 

The  Deserted  Village 

The  Deserted  Village  .... 

Retaliation 

Retaliation 

Morning  Landscape 

The  Hermit -.     , 

Rural  Sounds 

Love  of  Nature    

Lines  on  the  Receipt  of  my  Mo^ 

ther's  Picture 

Portrait  of  Robert  Burn- 

Tam  O'Shanter 

Man  was  made  to  Mourn  . 
To  Mary  in  Heaven  .  .  . 
Portrait  of  Samuel  Roger: 

Coll'  Alto 

The  Brides  of  Vr^i  i 

Don  Qakzia    . 

GiNEVRA     


Author. 
Whitticr  . 


Thomson 
Thomson 
Thomson 
Thomson 
Thomson 
Thomson 
Collins 


(rray 
Gray 
Qray 


Goldsmith 

Goldsmith 

Goldsmith 

Goldsmith 

Goldsmith 

Goldsmith 

Beatlie 

Beattie 

Oowpcr 

Cowpcr 

Cowper 


Bu7-ns 
Bnnis 
Burns 


Portrait  of  William  Wordsworth 
A  Rural  Heri' 
The  Skater   . 
Mt  Dwelling 


Iio;/ers 
Rogers 
Rogers 
Rogers 


Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 

Wordsworth 


Designer. 

Hamilton 

Schmolzc . 

J.  Gilbert 

Schmolze . 

Schmoke 

Schmolzc 

Schmolzc 

Schmolzc 

Schmolzc 

Devcreux 


Schmolzc 
Oreswick 
Schmolzc 


Schmolze 
Schmolzc 
Schmolze 
Schmolze 
Schmolze 
Schmolze 
Devereux 
Schmolzc 
Schmolze 
Schmolzc 

Devereux 


Schmolze 
Schmolze 
Schmolze 
Lawrence 


Tamer 
Vasari 


Schmolzc 
Schmolzc 
Davie 


Pago 
1 
2 
33 
34 
36 
38 
39 
41 
44 
4(3 
49 
51 
55 
Gl 
62 
63 
67 
70 
72 
SO 
85 
87 
89 
92 
96 

97 
102 
100 
111 
115 
117 
120 
125 
126 
130 
133 
134 
13G 
143 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS.  Vll 

Sulijocl.                                                Author.  Designer.                      I'ogo 

PouTEAiT  OF  Walter  Scott Leslie      .    .    .     H'\ 

The  Battle  of  Flobden    ....    Scotl   ....  Schmolze      .    .    155 

The  Battle  of  Flodden     •     .     .     .    Scott   ....  Schmolze      .    .    162 

The  Cypress  Wreath Scott   ....  Schmolze      .    .    164 

Mont  Blanc Qohridrjc .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     105 

1,0 ve Coleridge .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     169 

Sunday  Mornixh Southcy   .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     17'1 

The  Desert-Thiust Soulhey   .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     179 

Portrait  of  Charles  Lamb 180 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces  ....     Lamb.     .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     182 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Campbell Lawrence     .    .    184 

Battle  of  the  Baltic Campbell      .     .  Turner    .     .     .     186 

Soldier's  Dream Campbell      .     .  Turner    .     .     .     188 

Hallowed  Ground Campbell      .     .  Schuesselc     .     .     190 

Hallowed  Ground Campbell      .    .  Schmolze .    .    .    191 

Hallowed  Ground Campbell      .     .  Turner    .     ...     192 

Hymn  to  the  Flowbus Horace  Smith    .  Schmolze      .    .     195 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Moore Lawrence     .    .    201 

Were  not  the  Sinful  Mary's  Teaks    Muorc ....  SchuesseU     .    .     203 

Drink  to  Her Moore  ....  Deverewx     .     .     205 

Recluse — The  Fountain     ....     Montgomery      .  Turner    ...     207 

Portrait  of  Reginald  Heber 211 

The  Hunting-Pariy Hcbcr      .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     212 

I  see  them  on  their  Winding  Way     Heber      .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     215 

The  Sabb.\th Orahame      .     .  Schmolze .     .     .     216 

The  Sabbath Orahame      .    .  Schmolze           .     218 

The  Sabbath Grahamc      .     .  Schmolze      .     .    220 

Portrait  of  Henky  Kirke  White 224 

Venice Byron      .     .     .  Turner    .     .     .     227 

Venice Byron      .     .     .  Turner    .     .     .     231 

Evening  Twilight Byron      .     .     .  Turner    ...     236 

The  Pauper's  Death-Bed  ....     Mrs.  Soulhey     .  Schmolze      .     .     239 

Portrait  of  John  Keble <?.  Richmond    .    243 

Christmas  Day Heble  ....  Schmolze      .    .    247 

Good  Friday Heble  ....  Warren  ...     250 

Evening Keble  ....  Schmolze      .     .    254 

The  Cloud Shelley     .     .     .  Turner    ...     256 

Portrait  of  Felicia  Uemans Fletcher   .     .     .    264 

The  Better  Land Hemans  .     .     .  Schmolze      .     .     266 

The  Rhine Hemans  .     .     .  Turner    .     .     .     268 

Portrait  of  John  Keats J.Severn      .     :    270 

To  Autumn Keats  ....  Schmolze      .     .    273 

Sonnet  to  Kosciusko Keats  ....  Turner    .         .     275 

The  Summer  Months Motherwell  .     .  Schmolze      .     .     276 

The  Summer  Months Motherwell  .     .  Schmolze      .     .     279 

R^jTH Hood  ....  Wheatley     .     .     280 

The   Prophecy   of   Capvs  {Profusely 

Mlustraled) Macaulay     .    .  Scharf     ...    287 

Portrait  of  Mrs.  Browning Head  ....    302 

Portrait  op  Tennyson Whiiechurch     .    313 


VIU 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Subject. 

The  Bkook 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Beigade 
The  Belle  of  the  Ball  .... 
Tell  Me,  te  Wixged  Wikds  .     .     . 

A  Petition  to  Time 

Dermot  O'Dowd      ........ 

Voices 

She  will  not  He.\p.   ...... 

September 

A  Fasct    

The  High  Tide 

A  Forest  Htmn 

Thanatopsis 

The  Past 

Marco  Bozzaris 

The  Healing  of  the  Daughter  of 

Jairus ■ .     .     .     . 

Dedication  Hymn 

The  Building  of  the  Ship  .  .  . 
The  Castle  bt  the  Sea      .... 

The  Old  Man  Dreams 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree  .  .  . 
A  Ballad  op  Sib  John  Franklin  . 
Pitt,  Good  Gentlefolks      .... 

The  Heart's  Song 

The  Summer  Storm 

The  River  Path     

The  Sea     

The  Beggar 

The  Return  of  Spring 

The  Old  Chapel  Bell 

The  Prairie  Belle 

The  Two  Ships 

Kit  Carson's  Ride 

Love's  Logic 

The  Stormy  Tide 

Goin'  Home  To-Day 

Charlie 

L'Esvoi 


Author. 

Designer. 

Pago 

Tennyson 

Schmolze 

.      314 

Tennyson 

.     Turner     . 

.    323 

Pracd  .     . 

.    325 

Machay   . 

.     Creswieh 

.    330 

Procter     . 

.    Schmolze 

.    333 

Lover  .     . 

.    Schmolze 

.    338 

Swain .     . 

.     Devereux 

.     340 

Swinburne 

.     Schmolze 

.    344 

.    349 

Meredith  . 

.     Turner    . 

.    353 

Tnnelow    . 

.     356 

Bryant    . 

.    Schmolze  . 

.    363 

Bryant    . 

.     Schmolze  . 

.    369 

Bryant    . 

.    Schmolze  . 

.    373 

Halleck    . 

Turner    . 

.    377 

Willis      . 

.    Schuessele 

.    379 

Willis      . 

.     Schuessele 

.    384 

Longfellow 

.     Schmolze 

.    391 

Longfello^o 

.     Dcvereux 

.    401 

Holmes    . 

.     Benton     . 

.    403 

Morris 

.     Dcvereux 

.    416 

Boker .    . 

.     Devereux 

.    419 

Machellar 

.    Mosses 

.    432 

Coxe    .     . 

.     Franklin 

.    436 

Lowell 

.     Humphreys 

.    439 

Whittier  . 

.     .     Turner  . 

.    444 

Stoddard . 

.     .     Schmolze 

.    448 

Butler      . 

.    450 

Taylor     . 

.     .    Schmolze 

.    452 

Saxe    .     . 

.     Schmolze 

.    454 

Say    .     . 

.    461 

Earte .     . 

466 

Miller      . 

.     Northcote 

.    470 

Timrod    . 

.    477 

Leland    . 

.    Daniell    . 

.    479 

Carleton  . 

.    Schmolze 

.    481 

Sledman  . 

.     .     Schmolze . 

.    486 

Coppee 

.     Turner    . 

.    488 

INTRODUCTION. 


In  the  following  pages  we  offer  to  our  readers  a  col- 
lection of  beautiful  passages  from  the  English  Poets. 
They  are  arranged  in  chronological  order,  and  embody 
that  technically  "  modern  period,"  from  Thomson  to  our 
own  time :  we  have  included,  also,  with  the  renowned 
masters  of  English  verse,  a  few  of  our  own  American 
l^oets,  eminently  worthy  to  appear  in  such  a  catalogue. 

Such  a  collection  would,  in  itself,  give  value  to  this 
volume,  but,  to  enhance  its  merits  in  an  eminent  degree, 
exquisite  art  has  been  brought  into  the  service,  in  a 
manner  as  striking  and  beautiful  as  it  is  novel.  In  this 
respect,  the  work,  it  is  thought,  has  no  superior,  if  it 
even  have  a  rival. 

The  first  problem  of  difficulty,  in  arranging  the  ex- 
tracts herein  contained,  was  found  in  the  great  extent 
of  English  j)oetry.  To  give  even  a  glimpse  of  all  its 
scenes  was  impossible ;  to  pass,  even  in  rapid  review, 
upon  them,  the  whole  honorable  procession  of  robed  and 
crowned  poets,  to  the  marshalling  of  pursuivant  and 
herald,  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

It  is  not  without  regret  that  we  find  ourselves  com- 
pelled to  choose,  like  the  angle  of  an  artist's  picture,  a 
limited  period  and  a  distinct  number,  to  the  exclusion 
of   other  bright  periods  and   great   numbers  of  immortal 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

poets,  who,  in  former  times,  have  turned  flowers  of  earth 
into  amaranth,  and  transformed  curious  pebbles  by  Na- 
ture's beautiful  wayside   into  gems  of   the   purest  water. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of'  our  choice, — and  there 
are  those  besides  the  archaeologists  who  would  prefer 
another, — let  it  not  be  thought  that  any  injustice  is 
designed  to  periods  and  poets  here  excluded.  Our 
popular  sympathies  are  with  the  present ;  the  past  is 
over  distant ;  Art  seizes  with  a  more  electric  fancy  the 
winged  thought  as  it  issues  from  living  lips  ;  and  Poetry 
lays  its  choicest  tributes  of  elegy  and  dirge  where  the 
poet's  grave  is  still  green,  and  holy  memories  still  linger 
where  the  "Druids  lie  asleep." 

But  we  have  a  better  philosophy  of  selection  than 
this;  were  this  all — were  our  theme  "Great  English 
Poets,"  what  could  be  said  to  excuse  our  neglect  of 
Chaucer — old  Father  Chancer — the  great  poet,  and,  by 
inference,  historian  and  philosopher,  of  that  moonlit 
morning  of  English  Letters,  before  the  day-dawn  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  reign  ?  In  that  dark  and  early  period, 
it  may  indeed  be  said  of   him, 

"  All  tho  earth  and  air 

With  (his)  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven  is  overflowed." 

What  of  courtly  Edmund  Spenser,  whose  love-light 
irradiates  the  already  brilliant  reign  of  tho  Virgin 
Queen, — the  poet  of  the  "  gentle  virtues"  and  the  alle- 
gorist  of  heavenly  truth  ? 

How  could  we  plead  for  pardon   with   stern  old   John 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

Milton — SO  gram]  in  thought  and  harmonious  in  speech, 
that  he  drops  liis  poet's  lyre,  once  attuned  to  his  own 
sadness  and  sorrow,  to  sweep  a  seraph's  harp,  vibrating 
only  to  the  chantings  of  Paradise  and  tlie  voice  of  God; 
and  yet  so  wondrous,  strong  in  both  to  thrill  and  fire 
the  human  soul,  that  we  say  of  him,  as  he  touches 
either  strino; : 

"  Sing,  serapli  with  the  glory !     Heaven  is  high  ! 
Sing,  poet  with  the  sorrow  !     Earth  is  low ! 
The  universe's  inward  voices  cry 

'Amen'  to  either   song  of  joy  and  woe." 

And  of  Shakspeare  !  what  ? 

But  we  need  not  enumerate  the  great  names  not  in 
these  pages.  Worthy  of  reverence  and  admiration  as 
they  are,  we  repeat  that  they  are  not  here  ignored  or 
neglected ;  it  is  not  our  present  purpose  to  pay  our 
homage  to  them  :  that  must  be  reserved  for  other  oc- 
casions. 

There  is  in  the  history  of  English  poetry  what  is 
known  as  the  "transition  period,"  and  the  writers  who 
adorn  it  have  been  constituted  the  "transition  school." 

It  is  known  that  every  great  work  of  English  litera- 
ture is  marked  by  the  characteristics  of  the  English 
History  in  which  it  appeared  ;  taking  its  hue  now  with 
Spenser  from  the  fairy  court  of  the  Virgin  Queen  ;  again 
with  Milton  from  the  troublous  times  of  the  Civil  War, 
the  Republic,  and  the  Protectorate  ;  anon,  with  Dryden, 
presenting  every  change  in  the  state,  political  and  re- 
ligious, from  Cromwell  to  Charles  II.,  from  Charles  to 
James,  chroniclina;  thus  the  verv  statistics  of  Enshsh 
History : — but    the    period    to    which    we    refer    as    the 


xii  INTRO  DUCTIOX. 

transition  school,  while  it  had  much  of  this  historic 
philosophy,  was  of  a  character  more  abstract  and  meta- 
physical than  historical.  It  was  a  change  from  the  ideal 
to  the  real,  from  the  abstract  in  imagination  to  "the 
palpable  and  familiar,"  from  the .  fairy-land  of  Fancy 
to  jS^ature's  sunshine  and  verdure.  Not  to  weary  our 
readers  with  the  details  of  the  old  system,  which  passed 
through  many  modifications,  but  of  which  Dryden  and 
Pope  were  the  most  renowned  masters, — we  refer  them, 
in  token  of  the  great  change,  to  Thomson,  Cowper,  and 
Crabbe,  as  the  writers  of  the  transition  school,  sub- 
sidizina"  nature,  and  throwing  off  the  classic  trammels 
of  pastoral  and  heroic,  for  truth,  nature,  and  freedom. 
They  were,  indeed,  but  the  originators;  the  full  develop- 
ment of  the  change  must  be  found- — not  unattended 
with  errors,  as  well  of  thought  as  of  diction — in  Byron, 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  their  legionaries. 

This,  then,  was  our  starting-point;  there  seemed  to  be 
a  continuity  from  that  period  to  our  own ;  and  we  have, 
in  the  pages  that  follow,  brought  together  a  few  poets 
of  this  later  period,  beginning  with  Thomson.  While 
the  space  devoted  to  each  is  not  so  great  as  to  give  a 
just  idea  of  the  author  himself,  still  each  extract,  it  is 
hoped,  has  its  own  peculiar  merit  and  beauty,  which 
are  reproduced  to  the  eye  by  the  magnificent  engravings 
which  accompany  so  many  of  them. 

Nor  is  this  all ;  the  illustrations  are  not,  as  has  been 
the  custom  in  works  of  selected  poetry,  placed  opposite 
the  poem  or  lines  to  be  thus  interpreted  to  the  eye  by 
art,  like  a  frontispiece  or  vignette  ;  with  groat  ingenuity, 
and  witli  charming  effect,  they  have  been  printed  upon 
the  page  itself,  in  each  case,  as  a  pai-irof  the  poem,  thus 


INTRODUCTION.  XIU 

joining  the  poet  and  artist,  in  bonds  of  rare  beauty, 
and  producing,  as  the  effect,  an  exuberance  of  richness 
and  strength. 

An  effort  has  been  made,  in  the  choice  of  the  ex- 
tracts, to  avoid,  when  possible,  talcing  fragments  of  the 
longer  and  more  elaborate  poems  of  any  author,  as  these, 
in  most  cases,  bearing  the  necessary  relation  of  parts  to 
a  whole,  would  have  an  air  of  incompleteness,  and  would 
require,  indeed,  a  study  of  the  whole  poem  to  give  them 
their  true  value  and  effect.  But,  in  a  few  cases,  such 
extracts  have  been  more  than  practicable;  they  have 
been  very  complete  and  unit-like. 

Fortunately  for  the  beginning  of  our  work,  Thomson 
has  given  us,  in  his  "Hymn,"  a  beautiful  and  devout 
resume  of  his  great  work,  "The  Seasons,"  to  which 
multiform  art  has  been  most  effectively  applied,  in- 
voking alike  the  balmy  breezes  of  spring,  the  grateful 
noonshade  of  summer,  the  russet  fruits  of  autumn,  and 
the  tinkling  bells  and  sounding  skates  of  winter.  The 
devout  invocation  of  the  Hymn  is  a  very  fitting  and 
appropriate  opening  to  our  Poets'  Gallery. 

It  belongs  to  the  poet's  mind,  indeed,  to  conceive 
such  gigantic  schemes,  and  block  out  in  fancy  such 
colossal  heroes,  that  most  poets  have  left  their  ideals 
unwrought  in  real  verse ;  the  sequel  remains  unwritten, 
or  there  is  left  to  some  unworthy  hand  the  task  of 
making  a  halting,  disconnected,  and  dwarfed  conclusion 
to  the  splendid  thought  of  the  poet's  genius.  Such  was 
Chaucer's  great  scheme  in  those  rare  cabinet  pictures  of 
Eno-lish  life  which  are  drawn  for  us  in  the  Canterbury 
Tales  ;  they  would  have  brought  old  England,  in  all  its 
ranks    and   characters,    down    to    the    latest   generations, 


XIV  INTEODUCTION. 

had  not  the  poet  died  long  before  the  completion  of  his 
work.  His  pilgrims  are  still  on  the  Roman  Road  to 
Canterbury.  Such  was  Spenser's  thought  in  designing 
the  twelve  books  of  his  Faerie  Queen,  to  inculcate  the 
twelve  great  moral  virtues  of  a  gentle  person,  and  in 
looking  beyond  this  to  another  work  of  like  gigantic 
scope,  which  should  represent,  in  allegory,  the  "political 
virtues  as  well  as  the  moral:  he  died  when  six  books 
of  his  first  part  were  comjsleted,  and  no  one  has  dared  to 
follow  him  into  the  gorgeous  "faerie  land"  of  his  fancy. 

And  so,  too,  must  the  poet's  reality  always  be  in  its 
relation  to  his  great  idea:  Genius  may  plume  her  wings, 
"mewing  her  mighty  youth,"  for  a  sun-distant  soaring; 
but  the  eventide  will  come,  when  she  must  descend  to 
earth  again,  and  leave  the  empyrean  for  another  sun, 
and  a  newer  pinion. 

Yet  although  this  is  just  cause  of  regret  to  all  lovers 
of  English  poetry,  and  admii'ers  of  the  great  English 
poets ;  still,  there  are,  besides  these  great  Torsos  of  the 
Imagination,  the  smaller,  more  gem-like  poems,  of  various 
kinds,  which  are  at  once  characteristic  of  the  poet,  and 
symmetrical  in  themselves.  According  to  a  law  of  crys- 
tals, if  a  large  mass  be  shivered  into  fragments,  each  is 
in  itself  a  perfect  crystal,  whose  plane  surfaces  and 
angles  are  the  same  as  those  of  the  larger  mass ;  and 
each  is  the  primitive  form  assigned  to  that  crystal. 
Such  is  the  poet's  mind ;  each  thought  reflects  the  light 
of  immortality  from  the  same  source ;  each  verse  is  a 
luminous  and  symmetrical  miniature  of  the  great  life- 
work;  and  Milton  calls  a  true  poet's  life  a  great  poem. 
These  smaller  crystals  it  has  been  oar  purpose  to  gather 
and  arrange  here. 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

It  will  be  no  more  than  proper  to  give  to  the  readers 
of  this  work  a  passing  commentary  on  the  extracts 
which  it  contains.  It  must  be  brief,  and  unencumbered 
by  statistics. 

After  the  extracts  from  Thomson,  wc  have  introduced 
the  beautiful  "Ode  to  Evening,"  by  Collins,  not  so 
generally  appreciated  as  it  deserves  to  be,  because  it 
wants  the  tinkling  rhyme  of  popular  admiration,  but 
which  is  in  reality  as  nearly  perfect  as  any  thing  in  our 
knowledge.  It  is  charmingly  illustrated  by  the  ethereal 
form  whose 

"  Folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet." 

Of  all  the  poets,  none  appears  to  have  written  with 
more  foreknowledo-e  of  illustration  than  Thomas  Gray, 
whose  "Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard"  has  inspired 
the  pencil  of  Art  to  constant  attempts  at  interpretation, 
ever  since  it  was  written.  It  is,  indeed,  a  series  of 
four-lined  poems,  leather  than  a  connected  poem ;  and 
each  stanza  would  bear  an  illustration. 

"The  Bard"  is  a  picture  of  History  too  striking  to 
need  comment;  the  days  and  deeds  of  Cadwallo,  Urien, 
and  Modred,  are  days  also  of  lofty  romance,  and  bring 
back,  ever  and  anon,  to  our  ears,  the  distant,  htful 
sound  of 

"High-born  Heel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay." 

No  one  will  regret  to  see  so  large  a  space  devoted 
to  Goldsmith.  "The  Deserted  Village"  is  the  most 
beautiful  and  pathetic  of  moral  lessons,  and  cannot  be 
presented  or  read  too  often;  and  "Retaliation"  has  the 
charm   of  biographic    touches    which    render   it   a   parti- 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

cular  favorite.  That  Goldsmith  looked  up  with  reve- 
rence to  Dr.  Johnson,  even  in  the  domain  of  Poetry,  and 
that  Dr.  Johnson  is  the  author  of  some  of  the  fine  lines 
in  both  "The  Traveller"  and  "The  Deserted  Village," 
only  render  the  conclusion  more  astonishing  that  Gold- 
smith is  read  by  an  admiring  world,  while  "London" 
is  praised  by  the  critical  few. 

With  fewer  claims  to  popularity,  Beattie  has  still  left 
us  some  exquisitely  fresh  pictures  of  Nature,  and  some 
finely-expressed  moral  sentiments,  which  invoke  a  place 
in  our  Gallery.  There  are  few  things  simpler  and  sweeter 
than  the  picture  he  has  drawn — himself,  one  would 
think,  unconscious  of  its  power,  so  simple  is  its  lan- 
guage— to  illustrate  "The  Melodies  of   Morn;" 

"  The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain  side ; 
The  lowing  herd,  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell." 

Among  the  poets  who  form  the  transition  school, 
CoWPER  is  one  of  the  greatest  names.  Entirely  in  love 
with  Nature  himself,  he  treats  of  trivial  and  common 
things  in  plain,  vigorous  English,  and  over  all  he  throws 
an  atmosphere  of  devotion  which  makes  Nature  radiant 
with  the  Divinity.  As  a  type  of  his  life,  its  sorrow,  its 
doubts,  and  its  gentleness,  his  "  Lines  on  the  Receipt 
of  My  Mother's  Picture"  have  a  value  apart  from  his 
own  meaning ;  they  are  in  epitome  an  unconscious 
autobiography  of  the  poet's  heart. 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  Burns,  poor  Burns!  He 
held  the  pen  of  a  philosopher,  but  led  a  life  of  sorrow 
and  excess.  As  we  read  his  sage  advice,  his  lessons  and 
warnings  to  Tam,  liis  moralizings  upon  life  and  death, 
and   then  reflect   upon   his   own   sad   experience,   we   arc 


INTRODUCTION.  XVll 

ready  to  exclaim  witli  the  poetess,  in  very  sadness  and 
sympathy : 

"  0   men  !  this  man,  in  brothorlioorl, 
Your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groaned  inly  while  lie  taught  you  peace, 
And  died  while  you  were  smiling." 

What  would  English  literature  be  without  Burns  ? 
How  could  the  world  spare  "Tarn  O'Shanter"?  Where 
is  the  counterpart  to  "Mary  in  Heaven"? 

Of  RoGEES  and  Campbell,  the  poets  of  Memory  and 
Hope,  it  must  ever  be  allowed  that  in  their  longer  poems 
they  have  laid  up  their  principal  treasures, — treasures 
of  fine  thought,  caroiul  finish,  elaborate  ornamentation  ; 
making  the  verse  of  one  to  glide  like  rippling  water, — • 
the  ever-changing,  but  gentle  stream,  upon  which  Memory 
wafts  her  favored  voyager ;  and  giving  to  the  fine  heroics 
of  the  other,  a  richness  of  tone,  now  soft  and  sweet,  like 
the  music  of  "Love's  Youno-  Dream,"  and  anon  startling 
and  trumpet-like,  inspiring  to  deeds  of   patriotic  valor. 

But  tliough  this  is  true  of  their  larger  poems,  the 
fine  "staccato  passages"  in  "Italy"  give  us  real  frag- 
mentary beauties  from  Rogers  ;    a  Picture 

"Done  by  Zampieri,  but  by  whom  I  care  not;" 

a  Statue ;  a  Gondola  at  St.  Mark's,  or  a  Doge's  gilded 
barge  "  Bucentaur"  wedding  the  Adriatic.  And  there 
was  a  sphere  in  which  Campbell  has  always  moved 
alone ;  his  martial  lyrics  making  him  the  undisputed 
laureate  of  tlie  battle-field,  and  the  thundering  deck  of 
"native  oak."  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic"  and  "Hohen- 
linden"  are  not  excelled  by  any  lyrics,  in  any  language, 
ancient  or  modern. 


xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

One  fragment  of  Wordsworth  seems  to  be  an  excep- 
tion to  extracts  from  large  poems,  in  general.  It  is  that 
lifelike  description  of  the  Skater,  from  the  "Childhood 
and  Sehooltime"  of  "The  Prelude,"  which  the  artist  has 
reiDresented  to  us  by  a  graceful  figure  of  a  young  skater, 
with  arms  folded,  and  eyes  fairly  dancing  with  the  solitary 
sport.  Wordsworth  will  bear,  less  than  any  other  Eng- 
lish poet,  to  be  read  in  fragments  such  as  would  sujjply 
our  present  need ;  although  many  thoughts,  expressed  even 
in  two  or  three  lines,  are  particularly  well  suited  for  illus- 
trative quotation.  To  appreciate  him,  his  works  must 
be  studied.  His  poems  are  the  history  of  his  life,  ardent, 
contemplative,  and  original ;  hence,  in  themselves,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  they  will  lose  something  of  that  interest 
which  belongs  very  much  to  his  own  identity  ;  and  as 
time  rolls  on,  and  that  identity  becomes  shadowy  and 
indistinct  in  the  past,  "the  School  of  Wordsworth"  will 
give  place  to  one,  of  which  action,  vigor,  and  intellectual 
motion  shall  be  the  splendid  characteristics.  But  if 
such  shall  be  the  verdict  of  time  as  to  the  school  which 
he  has  established,  there  are  beauties  in  his  own  poems 
which  the  "world  will  not  willingly  let  die;"  and  by 
these  his  name  will  be  transmitted,  honored  and  che- 
rished, to  the  latest  generations. 

Not  a  word  need  here  be  said  of  Scott,  whose  "Lay" 
and  "  Lady"  are  the  very  music  and  heroine  of  chivalric 
sentiment,  even  in  our  work-day  world.  Flodden  Field 
owes  to  him  an  immortality  which  its  own  importance 
could  never  have  claimed,  and  Marmion  is  our  beau- 
ideal  of  a  bold  and  unscrupulous  English  knight  in  those 
days  of  bold  and  unsciupulous  dealing.  As  a  spirited 
and  liighly  finished  battle-piece,  "Flodden"  has  been 
introduced. 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

Coleridge's  Hynui  to  Mont  Blanc  is  a  magnificent 
burst  of  poetical  devotion.  How  charmingly  has  our 
own  satirist  and  poet,  Holmes,  described  its  author,  its 
electric  fancy,  its  vocal  bursts  : 

"  Unblest  by  any  save  tlie  goatherd's  lines, 
Mont  Blanc  rose  soaring  tlirougli  Lis  '  sea  of  pines ;' 
In  vain  the  Arve  and  Arveiron  dash. 
No  hymn  salutes  them  but  the  Ranz  des  Vaches  ; 
Till  lazy  Coleridge,  by  the  morning's  light, 
Gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  fields  of  white. 
And  lo!   the  glaciers  found  at  length  a  tongue, 
Mont  Blanc  was  vocal,  and  Chamouni  sung." 

The  poem  of  "  Love,"  or  "  Genevieve,"  is  the  per- 
fection of   pure  sentiment  most  charmingly  expressed. 

It  is  difficult  to  find  words  in  which  to  express  briefly 
a  just  criticism  of  Southey, — he  was  so  learned,  so  para- 
doxical, so  truth-loving,  so  obstinate,  so  egotistical,  o-nd 
withal  so  just  to  himself  and  his  well-earned  fame;  but 
he  has  left  many  noble  poems,  in  very  pure  English,  and 
from  them  we  have  chosen  two  beautiful  smaller  pieces, 
and  a  graphic  scene  from  his  colossal  epic,   "Thalaba." 

The  sphere  of  Charles  Lamb  was  eminently  poetical, 
and  yet  he  has  made  but  few  essays  in  verse.  But  if 
high  sentiment,  noble  diction,  and  pathetic  earnestness, 
all  lavished  upon  worthy  subjects,  are  elements  of  poetry, 
then  the  essays  of  Elia  are  full  of  poetry.  Vivid,  con- 
templative, witty,  they  are  prose  poems,  destined  to  im- 
mortality. Of  his  works  in  verse,  the  "Old  Familiar 
Faces"  will  always  be  recognized  as  his  most  striking 
production  :  as  such  it  has  been  introduced  with  an  apt 
illustration, — Nature  showering  her  leafy  tears  upon  a 
stranger  in  his  own  home,  seeking  in  vain  to  find  "the 
old  familiar  faces." 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

Horace  Smith  is  known  more  generally  in  England 
than  in  this  countr\-,  as  one  of  the  authors  of  the  "  Re- 
jected Addresses;"  but  he  has  achieved  his  truest  fame, 
in  our  judgment,  by  his  "  Hymn  to  the  Flowers,"  which 
is  always  fresh,  odorous,  and  musical.  Glance  at  the 
rich  handiwork  of  the  artist,  and  acknowledge  that  he 
has  fairly  caught  its  spirit  and  its  power. 

Of  Moore,  so  long  the  poet  of  love  and  society,  we 
are  loth  to  think  as  always  basking  in  that  false  and 
lurid  light;  his  love  was  often  license,  and  society  was 
the  idol  at  whose  shrine  he  burnt  his  best  poetic  in- 
cense.    But   those  who  have  listened   in  former  days  to 

"  The  idle  tinkling  of   tlie  minstrel's  lyre" 

turn  now  with  truer  pleasure  to  those  Sacred  Melodies, 
which  are  fervent  with  devotion,  and  overflowing  with 
tears.  What  a  debt  of  gratitude,  too,  does  his  country 
owe  him  for  the  Irish  Melodies !  What  a  glorious 
retrieval  of  airs,  which  had  degenerated  into  union  with 
low  and  vulgar  words !  What  a  happy  marriage  of 
time-honored  music  to  chivalry  and  glorious  sentiment ! 
Thus  should  MoORE  be  remembered. 

With  the  name  of  James  Montgomery,  arises  to  the 
mind  a  vision  of  glorious  and  real  abstractions, — godli- 
ness, philanthropy,  and  contentment.  If  not  a  great 
poet,  he  is  a  good  one,  and  is  loved  and  cherished  by 
millions  in  England  and  America.  It  may  be  doubted 
if  any  one  ever  read  "The  Field  of  the  World,"  with- 
out an  emotion  and  a  resolution  for  the  better. 

What  a  power  is  conferred  upon  the  Poetic  Muse! 
It  is  the  power  herself  to  confer  immortality  for  a  few 
words  of  genius,  hastily  louccived,  rapidly   written,  but. 


INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

when  once  printed,  forever  to  be  shouted  from  milHons 
of   hearts,   by  millions  of   voices,   to  every  zenith. 

Such  was  the  noble  award  of  poetry  to  Heber. 
Scholar,  Bishop,  missionary  of  the  Cross,  he  is  better 
known  and  more  constantly  honored  as  the  writer  of 
that  most  beautiful  of   Christian  ballads, 

"  From  Greenland's  icy  mountains," 

which  moves  with  such  pleasant,  undulating  motion 
alike  to  the  chanting  of  baby  tongues,  and  of  manly 
bass.  It  was  deemed  unnecessary  to  repeat  it  in  this 
collection — because  it  is  in  every  one's  memory. 

It  is  well  known  that  General  Wolfe,  as  he  floated 
upon  the  St.  Lawrence  on  the  memorable  night  before 
his  attack,  thought  it  more  desirable  to  have  written 
Gray's  Elegy  than  to  take  Quebec;  but  the  electric 
popularity  of  the  Missionary  Hymn  is  far  greater  than 
that  of  the  Elegy,  and  the  fame  of  the  author  quite  as 
enduring  as  that  which  rewards  the  genius  of   Gray. 

To  please  the  admirers  of  Geahame, — all  will  respect 
his  holy  theme, — we  have  introduced  an  extract  from 
his  "Sabbath;"  it  is  unexceptionable  in  tone,  and  calming 
in  its  effect  upon  the  mind ;  and  its  real  merits  have 
here  been  -greatly  enhanced  by  the  beautiful  illustrations 
of   the  artist. 

We  cannot  claim  to  be  among  those  whose  enthu- 
siasm for  his  piety  has  led  them  to  rank  Kirke  White 
among  the  first  Enghsh  poets  ;  but  his  sad  story  lends 
an  interest  to  his  verses  quite  as  great  as  genius  itself 
could  do.  Nor  are  they  wanting  in  a  certain  power 
and    beauty.     Especially  are    the    closing   stanzas  of   his 


XXU  INTRODUCTION. 

fragment,  "The  Christiad,"  extremely  toucliing  and 
effective, — the  lialf-resigned,  half-reluctant  death-sono;  of 
a  gifted  boy.  "  The  Star  of  Bethlehem"  is  a  Christian 
hymn  everywhere  known  and  loved. 

It  is  characteristic  of  Genius  that  she  loves  to  fledge 
and  foster  her  offspring  in  lowly  nests  :  and  so  for  the 
first  time  in  our  catalogue  we  come  upon  a  noble  singer ; 
on  many  accounts  the  most  remarkable  of  the  English 
poets  of  his  time,- — Lord  Byron.  It  is  related  in  one 
of  Spence's  anecdotes,  that  after  Pope  had  been  reading 
to  an  old  lady  a  canto  of  Spenser's  "Faerie  Queen,"  she 
declared  he  had  been  showing  her  a  gallery  of  paintings. 
To  make  such  a  gallery  was  Byron's  aim  in  the  com- 
position of  Childe  Harold ;  and  we  are  consequently  at 
no  loss  for  fine  and  complete  pictures  in  that  poetic 
record  of  his  travels.  A  view  of  the  Rhine,  with  its 
song  of  Drachenfels ;  Seville  in  its  rare  Southern  beauty ; 
Rome,  "the  Niobe  of  nations;"  Clareus,  "birthplace  of 
deep  love;" — wherever  the  eye  turns  it  rests  upon  a 
magnificent  landscape,  in  which  the  prominent  figure  is 
always  the  same, — the  restless,  morbid,  world-hating 
poet  himself,  the  "Childe"  of  his  own  story.  Of  all  his 
beautiful  descriptions,  none  is  grander  or  more  touching 
than  that  of  Venice, — Venice  appealing,  through  the 
poet,  to  England,  tliat 

"The  Ocean  Queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children ;" 

the  old  lion  of  St.  Mark  invoking  tlie  favor  and  pro- 
tection of  the  majestic  young  lion  of  Britain.  It  is  less 
coramon,  too,  than  many  others,  and  has  been  for  that 
reason  selected  in  this  work. 


INTRODUCTION.  XX  111 

Mrs.  SouTHEY  is  known  botli  l;>y  lier  own  name,  Caro- 
line Bowles,  and  by  her  husband's  overshadowing  name, 
as  a  woman  of  high  intellectual  and  poetic  powers  ;  of 
her  genius  we  have  striking  proof  in  that  gi'and  poem, 
"The  Pauper's  Death-bed."  There  can  be  nothing  finer 
than  the  stanza  beginning 

"0  change,  0  wondrous  change! 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars!" 

It  is  overwhelming  in  thought  and  diction. 

"Who  does  not  love  George  Herbert? — the  very  name 
is  a  sweet  savor  of  sanctity.  The  mantle  of  Herbert 
has  descended  upon  Keble  ;  while,  with  an  originality, 
an  identity,  as  marked  as  that  of  any  other  English  poet, 
he  has  completed  the  idea  of  Herbert,  and  formed  for  us, 
in  livinc-  strains,  a  companion  for  every  Sunday  and 
great  day  in  England's  ecclesiastical  year.  The  idea  is 
not,  indeed,  a  new  one ;  for  in  England,  Henry  Vaugban 
had  sung  in  holy  and  humble  notes  of  the  great  doctrines 
of  the  English  Church,  and  the  days  of  their  showing 
forth,  according  to  its  ritual ;  and  on  the  Continent,  in 
Germany,  Paul  Gerhardt,  Weiszel,  Rist,  Richter,  Luther, 
and  others,  impelled  by  holy  fervor,  had  written  verses 
upon  the  principal  Sundays  in  the  year;  but  there  is 
no  work  in  any  language  which  is  the  basis  of  Keble's 
"Christian  Year;"  and  no  poet  has  ever  equalled  him  in 
the  beauty  of  its  manifold  parts.  Its  popularity  extends 
far  beyond  his  own  communion,  and  proves  the  catho- 
licity of  its  pious  spirit. 

Of  all  the  poets,  the  most  strikingly  individual  is 
Shelley.  He  seems  to  write  for  himself,  not  for  the 
world  ;  the  strings  of   his  lyre  were  attuned  to  his  own 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

heart,  his  own  hopes,  and  his  own  aspirations  ;  and  be- 
yond these  he  cared  not  to  look.  Shocking  society  by 
his  views  of  Hfe,  and  his  practice ;  alienating  even  Chris- 
tian charity  by  his  blasphemy  ;  self-deceived  by  a  kind 
of  organic  sophistry  in  these  vital  matters  ;  he  soothed 
'  himself  by  Poetry  :  she  was  his  kindly  nurse,  his  gentle 
companion ;  and  had  he  not  met  a  premature  death,  so 
strangely  shadowed  forth  in  "Adonais,"  she  might  have 
been  gifted  from  God  to  bring  hirn  at  last  to  "repent- 
ance and  a  better  mind."  If  Shelley  had  an  inspiia- 
tion  from  Vv'ithout,  it  was  more  than  two  thousand  years 
old ;  he  was  imbued  essentially  with  Greek  philosophy 
and  learning;  and  we  may  gather  the  best  idea  of  the 
effect  produced  by  the  Greek  tragedists  upon  the  culti- 
vated Greek  mind,  by  observing  the  effect  of  Shelley's 
poetry  upon  our  own. 

"The  Cloud"  is  a  fine  series  of  beautiful  contrasts, 
poetizing  the  simplest  phenomena  of  air  and  watery 
vapor;  while  the  verses  "To  a  Skylark"  are  without  a 
rival    in    the   extremely   limpid   flow  of  the   verse.      In 

the  lines, 

"  Sound  of  vernal  sliowors 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakcncd  flowers," — 

one  can  hear  rain-drops  and  bird-singing,  and  memory 
supplies  a  pleasant  fancy  of  the  sweet  perfume  of  hidden, 
"rain-awakened"  violets. 

With  the  mention  of  Keats  comes  an  emotion  of 
never-failing  regret,  that  one  who  promised  so  much 
should  have  died  in  the  very  heyday  of  hope  and  action. 
He  has  not  left  much  in  volume,  but  the  little  we  have, 
highly  indicative  of  genius  as  it  is,  has  enabled    us  to 


INTKODUCTIOK.  XXV 

present  to  the  reader,  extracts  full  of  soul  and  con- 
ceived in  the  best  vein  of  poetic  thaught.  His  lines 
to   "Autumn"  are  particularly  vigorous  and  beautiful. 

It  was  for  a  long  time  the  fashion  to  overrate  Mrs. 
Hemans,  and,  for  some  years  past,  by  a  process  of  reac- 
tion, the  critics  have  combined  to  depreciate  her  poetry. 
If  there  be  another  cause  for  this  latter  injustice,  it  is 
the  coming  in  of  that  quaint  school  of  Poetry  of  which 
Wordsworth  was  the  chief:  the  quietists,  the  mystics, 
the  men  who  frown,  by  their  example,  at  least,  upon 
the  joyous,  the  gay,  and  "the  gushing"  in  verse. 

An  American  writer  has  attributed  the  popularity  of 
another  of  our  country's  poets  to  his  writing  at  and  for 
the  people, — "breast  high," — to  use  his  own  phrase. 
Eminently  does  this  apply  to  Mrs.  Hemans.  There  is 
no  age  or  walk  in  life  that  has  not  dwelt  with  delight 
upon  her  heart-verses.  She  has  touched  the  chords  of 
the  human  harp  to  every  note  of  which  it  is  capable, 
and  she  will  live  as  long  as  love,  and  hope,  and  holy 
grief  find  sway  in  this  chequered  world  of  laughter  and 
tears.  Few  persons  can  read  "The  Better  Land,"  with- 
out at  least  recalling  the  emotions  of  childhood,  and 
blendino-  with  them  the  sad  experience  of   later  years. 

Little  need  be  said  of  Motheewell  ;  his  life  was 
sorrowful  and  short,  and  he  seems  to  have  been  gifted 
as  a  poet  only  to  sing  his  own  death-song. 

Of  Hood,  the  world  knows  more  than  of  most  con- 
temporary poets,  because  of  the  comic  element  in  almost 
every  thing  he  wrote.  But,  to  our  mind,  his  pathos  was 
better  than  his  fun,  and  this  is  manifest  from  that  most 
touching  poem,  "The  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  which  appears 
among  our  extracts.  With  the  very  perfection  of  pathos, 
what  a  noble  lesson  it  contains  ! — 

7 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Alas !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun !" 

Mr.  Macaulay — we  must  beg  his  pardon  that,  as  his 
fame  was  all  achieved  before  his  peerage,  he  can  never 
be  Lord  Macaulay  to  us — has  given  us,  in  the  "Lays 
of  Ancient  Rome,"  a  beautiful  and  scholarly  history  of 
two  periods  in  Roman  history' — that  to  which  the  Lays 
refer,  and  of  which  they  tell  the  story,  and  that  in  which 
they  are  supposed  to  be  sung  for  the  noble  purpose  of 
inciting  the  degenerate  Roman  people  by  the  lofty  ex- 
ample of  their  ancestors.  Rich  as  are  these  poems  in 
the  flow  of  words,  there  are  not  wanting  those  who  think 
Macaulay  led  astray  by  his  own  luxuriance  into  some- 
thing very  like  verbiage.  The  dictum  of  the  world,  the 
vox  populi,  however,  has  declared  unanimously  in  favor 
of  the  Lays,  in  spite  of  the  dilettanti.  We  have  intro- 
duced "The  Prophecy  of  Capys"  because  of  its  real 
interest  and  excellence,  and  because  it  is  less  known 
than  Horatius  and  Virginia. 

Again  in  our  list  we  reach  a  woman's  name,  but  how 
unlike  is  its  bearer  to  Mrs.  Hemans!  The  one  is  a  glad 
and  genial  companion  in  all  the  homes  of  humanity, — • 
the  other,  prophetess  and  pythoness,  stands  aloof  from 
thern  all,  at  least  in  her  bolder  flights,  and  sings  now  of 
vulture-torn  Prometheus,  in  numbers  almost  equal  to  those 
of  ^schylus,  and  again  of  the  Drama  of  Exile  from  Para- 
dise, with  all  its  horrors.  Mrs.  Browning  stands  alone 
in  our  literature.  Pier  mind  has  been  called  masculine ; 
this  is  an  error.  It  is  not  of  necessity  masculine  to  be 
vigorous  and  independent.  No  man  could  have  written 
like  lier ;  and  this  she  seems  to  have  designed  to  prove 


INTRODUCTION.  XXVll 

in  her  last  poem,  "Aurora  Leigh."  This  poem  is  in 
reality  the  autobiography  of  just  such  a  woman,  wlio 
would  place  herself  above  man  in  point  of  will,  if  not 
of  intellect.  If  Chaucer's  "Wife  of  Bath"  be  a  true 
woman,  this  is  intensely  womanish ;  for  "  sovereignty 
over  man"  is  her  verdict  of   woman's  desire. 

But  as  if  to  show  how  multiform  her  genius  is,  Mrs. 
Browning  has  left  us  some  very  delicate  and  touching 
poems,  which  are  more  to  the  general  taste,  because 
they  come  down  to  the  level  of  our  common  humanity. 
"Cowper's  Grave"  is  a  universal  favorite;  and  we  com- 
mend most  heartily  "Loved  Once"  and  "The  Sleep." 
In  "The  Lady's  Yes,"  she  has  gone  out  of  herself  to 
write  a  simple  little  pleasantry,  which  is  amusing  and 
charming. 

We  reach  now  the  name  of  Tennyson,  the  worthiest 
English  poet  who  has  worn  the  laureate's  wreath.  He 
has  the  rarest  powers  of  harmonious  language,  and  invests 
his  curious  fancies  in  such  a  beautiful  garb  that  we  read 
and  admire  because  of  the  charms  of  his  diction. 

Fearing  to  spoil  his  noble  Idyls  by  extracts,  we  have 
presented  "The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  which  is 
a  sure  passport  to  immortality.  It  has  immediately  taken 
rank  with  Campbell's  battle-pieces,  and  will  remain 
among  the  finest  productions  of  that  class.  There  is 
a  terrible  truthfulness  in  his  description  of  that  focus  of 

convergent  fire — 

"  Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 
Volleyed  and  thundered." 

First  the  volley,  seen  ;  then  the  ihxmder,  heard  ! 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

Peaed  will  be  always  favorably  known  for  his  cbarm- 
incr  "  vers  de  societe."  They  are  minute  in  description, 
and  slow  with  a  refined  lambent  humor.  "  The  Belle 
of  the  Ball"  is  a  happy  hit  at  tlie  romance  of  young 
lovers,  which  soon  leaves  the  heart  free  for  "  many  other 
lodgers." 

Charles  Mackay  and  Charles  Swain  are  poets  for 
the  people ;  if  they  never  lose  themselves  in  the  clouds, 
they  are  always  simple,  manly,  and  lucid,  and  they  will 
often  be  read  where  greater  poets  are  passed  l:)y  in  rever- 
ential awe.  Akin  to  them  is  Bryan  W.  Procter,  but  his 
pathos  is  more  powerful.  The  "Petition  to  Time,"  with 
its  apt  illustration,  is  more  than  a  passive  prayer  ;  it  sug- 
gests an  active  charity  founded  upon  the  Grolden  Rule. 

Most  of  Lover's  ballads  require  music  to  bring  out  their 
meaning,  and  with  it  a  sly  look  and  a  toss  of  the  sing- 
er's head ;  but  there  is  a  nobler  sentiment  in  his  "Four- 
leaved  Shamrock" — the  magic  of  philanthropy. 

Browning  is  most  felicitous  when  he  leaves  the  mys- 
ticism of  "Paracelsus"  and  "Sordello"  to  paint  a  vivid 
"Incident  of  the  French  Camp."  We  /tear  of  his  weird 
philosophy;  we  read  liini  in  such  charming  little  epics. 

If  Swinburne  has  sometimes  employed  his  genius  in 
an  offensive  manner,  our  extracts  are  free  from  all  taint, 
and  are  an  earnest  that  he  will  yet  contradict  the  prurience 
of  his  "  Laus  Veneris,"  and  seek  to  consign  it  to  oblivion 

To  a  cultivated  reader  the  "Earthly  Paradise"  of  Wil- 
liam Morris  is  an  attractive  study.  Extracts  are  diffi- 
cult, but  tlie  jirologues  of  the  months  are  beautiful  and 
finished. 

Owen  Mek1';uitii's  "Lucille "  is  widely  known  and  appre- 


INTRODUCTION.  XXIX 

ciated;  we  have  limited  ourselves  to  a  siiiii)le  Fancy,  as 
suggestive  of  his  power  and  liis  liabitual  mood. 

Jean  Ingelow  is  as  vigorous  and  classical  as  the  sterner 
sex,  but  she  has  a  feminine  tenderness  and  compassion. 
"The  Songs  of  Seven"  strike  the  full  octave  of  woman's 
life,  while  the  sad  story  of  "my  Sonne's  wife  Elizabeth," 
whether  we  regard  it  as  pastoral,  descriptive,  or  pictorial,  is 
almost  without  a  rival. 

Perhaps  the  most  difficult  part  of  the  problem  of  selec- 
tion was  reached  in  the  effort  to  choose,  among  our  Amer- 
ican poets,  the  few  names  for  which  there  was  room  in 
our  English  gallery.  Many  there  are,  and  we  are  proud 
to  say  it,  who  more  than  deserve  the  distinction,  and  yet  of 
those  who  are  here,  are  not  all  eminently  worthy  ? 

Bryant  is  our  great  priest  of  Nature,  whether  Druid- 
like amid  the  groves,  which  he  tells  us  were  "  God's  first 
temples,"  or  wandering  in  "the  Past  "  to  find  "  each  tie  of 
pure  affection  "  which  the  aching  heart  has  mourned  as 
lost,  or  following  the  silent  Zephyr  in  its  balmy  flight. 

Longfellow  reminds  us  of  his  own  "  Singers,"  as  fi-om 
year  to  year  he  retouches  his  harp  to  a  newer  harmony 
and  a  deeper  lesson;  "wandering  by  streams,"  "singing 
in  the  market-place,"  anon  in  "  cathedrals  dim  and  vast," 
everywhere  he  touches  the  heart  and  strengthens  the  soul. 

And  such,  too,  are  the  claims  of  Willis  and  Halleok  ; 
heart-thoughts  and  loftv  tone  of  sentiment  mark  their 
writings,  and  make  them  "  household  words "  wherever 
they  are  known. 

But  we  must  epitomize  our  golden  opinions  of  the 
American  poets  with  whose  names  our  pages  are  en- 
riched :    Morris,    whose    nest   is   in   the   hearts   of   the 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

people,  wherever  a  lofty  tree  defies  the  woodrnan's  axe, 
or  our  country's  flag  floats  to  tell  of  union  and  strength ; 
Holmes,  "the  Doctor,"  anatomist,  rnicroscopist,  "auto- 
crat," but,  best  of  all,  poet,  and,  by  extension,  moralist, 
teacher,  satirist ;  PoE,  intensely  musical,  his  chimes, 
like  his  own  Bells,  constantly  singing  in  "a  sort  of 
Runic  rhyme,"  not  always  very  intelligible,  but  haunt- 
ins  the  chambers  of  the  brain  "  evermore." 

BoKER  is  characterized  by  refined  taste  ;  but,  acute  as 
is  his  sensitiveness  when  the  laws  of  rhetorical  taste  are 
in  danger,  such  an  elastic  bond  only  gives  greater  come- 
liness of  proportions  to  his  genius. 

From  the  burdensome  duties  of  the  press  Pkentice 
has  stolen  moments  for  sweet  converse  with  the  Muses, 
and  is  always  melodious  and  flute-like.  Simms  is  a  no- 
ble specimen  of  a  Southern  poet.  CoxE  is  truly  the  poet 
of  devotion  and  the  Church.  Each  of  his  Christian  ballads 
is  a  sermon  complete  in  all  its  parts.  Thomas  Mackel- 
LAK  is  the  gentle  poet  of  the  Clu-istian  virtues, — -tender 
humanity  and  fervent  piety. 

In  Lowell,  who  stands  in  the  first  rank,  we  discern 
a  surplus  of  power — much  more  than  he  has  written.  He 
represents  the  thought  of  Keats — "  Might  half  slumber- 
ing on  its  own  right  arm." 

Whittier  has  no  superior  in  lyric  power,  and  he  is 
possessed  by  his  muse :  ho  thinks  in  verse.  He  is  fresh, 
overflowing,  and  sparkling.  We  are  not  sure  that  when, 
in  the  coming  years,  the  deliberate  and  judicious  award 
is  made,  he  will  not  rank  first  among  the  American  poets. 

Stoddard  has  a  fine  fancy  and  great  powers  of  ex- 
pression.    Of  Butler  the  best  eulogy  is  the  efi^ect  pro- 


TNTRODUCTION.  XXXI 

duced  by  his  spirited,  humorous,  and  satirical  poem, 
"Nothing  to  Wear,"  a  happy  hit  at  woman's  extravagance. 

The  retired  hfc,  hard  fortune,  and  early  death  of 
TiMROD,  have  deprived  our  literature  of  a  name  whicli 
would  have  stood  very  high  in  the  list  of  American 
poets. 

Bayaed  Tayloe  has  many  passports  to  permanent 
fame  ;  he  is  a  traveller,  a  linguist,  a  journalist,  and  above 
all  a  true  poet.  He  claims  kindred  with  Goethe  in  his 
noble  translation  of  "Faust,"  at  once  literal  and  liberal. 
"A  Poet's  Journal"  gives  an  insight  into  his  own  life. 

Of  Saxe  it  may  be  said  that  his  poet-lodge  is  just 
where  the  fountains  of  tears  and  of  laughter  mingle 
their  murmuring  waters.  Wit  and  humorist,  as  he  is 
best  known,  there  is  a  touching  pathos  in  his  serious 
poems — slantings  of  shade  which  temper  the  garish  air 
and  give  a  varied  charm  to  his  pictures. 

Leland  is  a  Proteus :  the  wild  fancy  and  curious  me- 
lange of  "Meister  Karl,"  the  German  scholar,  are  suddenly 
changed  into  the  extravaganza  of  "Hans  Breitmann." 
American  war-songs  mingle  with  the  strains  of  Heine.  In 
each  sphere  he  is  at  home. 

From  the  sterner  and  more  practical  duties  of  life 
Stedman  finds  time  to  muster  with  the  poets.  He  excels 
in  rich  delineations  of  nature. 

Dr.  Holland,  poet,  novelist,  and  editor,  has  vindicated 
his  claims  to  the  laurel  in  several  extended  poems  full  at 
once  of  incident  and  philosophy. 

There  has  sprung  up,  WTitten  in  a  very  recent  period,  a 
school  of  poetry  known  as  "  Dialectic."     It  marks,  in  an 


XXXll  INTKODUCTIO]^'. 

existing  dialect,  a  generation  of  men  in  the  newly-opened 
portions  of  the  West — hunters,  voyageurs,  and  miners. 
Epic  in  its  cast,  it  is  local,  characteristic,  and  historical. 
Its  curious  catch-words  and  colloquies  are  an  insight  into 
their  wild  and  perilous  life.  Bret  Harte  may  be  consid- 
ered its  founder.  "  Truthful  James  "  upon  the  "  Heathen 
Chinee"  contains  more  than  broad  humor — the  historic  fact 
of  "  Chinese  cheap  labor,"  and  the  way  in  which  men  like 
Nye  "go  for  that  Heathen  Chinee."  Such,  too,  are  the 
poems  of  JoHx  Hay — the  plucky  education  of  ' '  Little 
Breeches"  and  the  terrible  pathos  of  "Jim  Bludso." 

Akin  to  these  are  Joaquin  Miller's  "  Songs  of  the 
Sierras."      "Kit  Carson's  Ride"  is  a  wild,  startlin2;  idvl, 

O.I 

descriptive  of  what  has  been  on  the  prairie,  infested  with 
Indians  and  roarincj  with  summer  fire. 

Last,  but  by  no  means  least.  Will  Caeleton's  "  Farm 
Ballads"  present  real  views  of  humble  life;'  of  ei'rors,  of 
repentance,  bringing  back  the  wandering  soul  to  pardon 
and  fresher  joy.  Few  can  read  "  Going  Home  To-day," 
without  a  catch  of  the  breath,  very  like  a  sob. 

It  only  remains  to  present  our  sincere  thanks  to  those 
publishers  who  have  kindly  permitted  the  use  of  these  se- 
lections, and  among  them,  specifically,  to  Messrs.  J.  R. 
Osgood  &  Co.  for  those  taken  from  the  copyright  works 
of  Wliittier,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  John  Hay ;  to  Messrs. 
Roberts  Brothers  for  those  of  Joaquin  Mill(>r;  to  Messrs. 
T.  B.  Peterson  for  those  of  Charles  G.  Lehmd  ;  to  Mr.  E. 
J.  Hale  for  the  selection  from  Timrod,  and  to  Messrs. 
Harper  &  Brothers  for  the  poem  of  Will  Carleton. 

H.  C. 

University  Place,  South  Bcthlcliera. 


lili 


THOMSOT^. 


HYMN  ON  THE  SEASONS. 

These,  as  they  change,  Ahnighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolhng  year 
Is  full  of   Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks.  Thy  tenderness  and  love. 

9  33 


34 


THOMSON. 


Wide  flush  the  fields ;  the  softenins;  air  is  balm  ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;    the  forest  smiles ; 
And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year : 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  sjaeaks. 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  Winter  awful  Thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness  !    on  the  whirlwind's  wing 


HYMN    ON    TUE   SKASON.S.  35 

Riding  sublime,  Tliou  bidd'st  the  world  adore, 
And  humblest  Nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round  1  what  skill,  what  force  Divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear!  a  simple  train, 
Yet  SQ.  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art. 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade ; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole ; 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze,- 
Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand. 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep;  shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  Spring; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day; 
Feeds  every  creature;  hurls  the  tempest  forth; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend!   join,  every  living  soul. 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky. 
In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song!     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  Spirit  iu  your  freshness  breathes: 
Oh,  talk  of   Him  in  solitary  glooms! 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely-waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  witb  a  religions  awe. 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar. 
Who  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  Heaven 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,   rapid  and  profound; 


36 


THOMSON. 


Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 

Along  the  vale ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 

A  secret  world  of   wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound  His  stupendous  praise  ;  whose  greater  voice 

Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall.. 

Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 

In  mingled  clouds  to  Him ;  whose  sun  exalts. 

Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints. 


Ye  forests,  bend,  yc  harvests,  wave,  to  Him ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart. 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 
Yc  that  keep  watch  in  Heaven,  as  Earth  asleep 


HYMN    ON    THE    SEASONS.  37 

Uaconscious  lies,  efFuse  your  mildest  beams, 

Ye  Constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 

Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 

Great  source  of   day  !  best  image  here  below 

Of   thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 

On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  His  praise. 

The  thunder  rolls  ;   be  hushed  the  prostrate  world ; 

While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  Hymn. 

Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  :  ye  mossy  rocks. 

Retain  the  sound :  the  broad  responsive  low, 

Ye  valleys,  raise ;  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns  ; 

And  His  unsuflferiug  kingdom  yet  will  come. 

Ye  woodlands  all,  awake  :  a  boundless  Song 

Burst  from  the  groves  !  and  when  the  restless  day, 

Expiring,  lays  the, warbling  world  asleep. 

Sweetest  of  birds !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 

The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  His  praise. 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles. 

At  once  tbe  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all. 

Crown  the  great  Hymn  ;  in  swarming  cities  vast. 

Assembled  Men,  to  the  deep  organ   join 

The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear. 

At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base  ; 

And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each. 

In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  Heaven. 

Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade. 

And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove ; 

There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 

The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre. 

Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons,  as  they  roll  ! 

For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 

10 


38 


THOMSON. 


Whether  the  Blossom  blows,  the  Summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autmnu  gleams, 


,,^^^^^|... 


^--i^'vai^'i^^-tJ^  Sr'"- 


Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east, 

Be  my  tongue  mute,  may  fancy  paint  no  more. 

And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat! 

Should  Fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song ;  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles ;   'tis  nought  to  me  : 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
III   tlio  void  waste,  as  in  the  city  full; 


HYMN    ON    THE   SEASONS. 


39 


And  where  He  vital  spreads  there  must  be  joy. 
Wlien  even  at  last  the  solemn  Hour  shall  come, 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 
I  cheerful  will  obey  ;    there,   with  new  powers, 
Will  rising  wonders  sing :    I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns ; 
From  seeming  Evil  still  educing  Good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still. 
In  infinite  progi'ession.     But  I  lose 
Myself   in  Him,  in  Light  ineffable  ! 
Come,  then,   expressive  Silence,  muse  His  praise. 


40  THOilSOxX. 


ON  A  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

I  HATE  the  clamors  of   the  smoky  towns, 
But  much  admu'e  the  bhss  of  rural  clowns  ; 
Where  some  remains  of   innocence  appear, 
Where  no  rude  noise  insults  the  listening  ear ; 
Nought  but  soft  zephyrs  whispering  .through  the  trees, 
Or  the  still  humming  of   the  painful  bees ; 
The  gentle  murmurs  of   a  purling  rill, 
Or  the  unwearied  chirping  of  the  drill ; 
The  charming  harmony  of  warbling  birds, 
Or  hollow  lo'wings  of  the  grazing  herds ; 
The  murmuring  stockdoves'  melancholy  coo. 
When  they  their  lov6d  mates  lament  or  woo; 
The  pleasing  bleatings  of  the  tender  lambs. 
Or  the  indistinct  mum 'ling  of  their  dams ; 
The  musical  discord  of  chiding  hounds, 
Whereto  the  echoing  hill  or  rock  resounds  ; 
The  rural  mournful  songs  of  lovesick  swains. 
Whereby  they  soothe  their  raging  amorous  pains ; 
The  whistling  music  of  the  lagging  plough. 
Which  does  the  strength  of  drooping  beasts  renew. 

And  as  the  country  rings  with  pleasant  sounds. 
So  with  delightful  prospects  it  abounds  : 
Tlirough  every  season  of  the  sliding  year. 
Unto  tlie  ravished  sight  new  scenes  appear. 

ill  the  sweet  Spring  the  sun's  prolific  ray 
Does  painted  flowers  to  tlie  mild  air  display ; 


ON    A    COUNTRY    LIFE. 


41 


Then  opening  buds,  then  tender  herbs,  are  'seen, 
And  the  bare  fields  are  all  arrayed  in  green. 

In  ripening  Summer,  the  full  laden  vales 
Give  prospect  of  employment  for  the  flails ; 
Each  breath  of  wind  the  bearded  groves  makes  bend, 
Which  seems  the  fatal  sickle  to  portend. 

In  Autumn,  that  repays  the  laborer's  pains. 
Reapers  sweep  down  the  honors  of  the  plains. 

Anon  black  Winter,  from  the  fi-ozen  north, 

Its  treasuries  of   snow  and  hail  pours  forth ; 

Then  stormy  winds  blow  through  the  hazy  sky, 

In  desolation  Nature  seems  to  lie , 

11 


42  THOMSON. 

The  unstained  snow  from  tlie  full  clouds  descends, 

Whose  sparkling  lustre  open  eyes  offends  ; 

In  maiden  white  the  glittering  fields  do  shine  ; 

Then  bleating  flocks  for  want  of  food  repine, 

With  withered  eyes  they  see  all  snow  around, 

And  with  their  fore-feet  paw  and  scrape  the  ground 

They  cheerfully  crop  the  insipid  grass. 

The  shepherds  sighing  cry,  Alas !  alas ! 

Then  pinching  want  the  wildest  beast  does  tame  ; 

Then  huntsmen  on  the  snow  do  trace  their  o-ame  ; 

Keen  fi'ost  then  turns  the  liquid  lakes  to  glass, 

Arrests  the  dancing  rivulets  as  they  pass. 

How  sweet  and  innocent  are  country  sports, 
And,  as  men's  tempers,  various  are  their  sorts ! 

You,  on  the  banks  of  ■  soft  meandeiing  Tweed, 
May  in  your  toils  ensnare  the  watery  breed. 
And  nicely  lead  the  artificial  flee, 
Which,  when  the  nimble,  watchful  trout  does  see. 
He  at  the  bearded  hook  will  briskly  spring ; 
Then  in  that  instant  twieth  your  hairy  string, 
Ami,  wlion  he's  hooked,  you,   with  a  constant  hand, 
May  draw  him  struggling  to  the  fatal  land. 

Then  at  fit  seasons  you  may  clothe  your  hook 
With  a  sweet  bait,  dressed  by  a  faithless  cook ; 
The  greedy  pike  darts  to  't  with  eager  haste,' 
And,  being  struck,  in  vain  he  flies  at  last; 
He  rages,  storms,  and  flounces  through  the  stream. 
But  all,  alas!    his  life  cannot  redeem. 

At  other  times  you  may  pursue  the  chase. 
And  Inuit  the  nimble  hare  from  place  to  place. 
See,  when  the  dog  is  just  ui>iiii   tlii;  grip. 
Out,  at  a  sitle  she'll  make  a  handsome  skip, 


ON    A    COUNTRY    LIFE. 


43 


And  crc  lie  can  divert  his  t'ui-ious  course, 

She,  far  before  him,  scours  witli  all  her  force  : 

She'll  shift,  and  many  times  run  the  same  ground  : 

A.t  last,  outwearied  by  the  stronger  hound, 

She  falls  a  sacrifice  unto  his  hate, 

And  with  sad  piteous  screams  laments  her  fate. 

See  how  the  hawk  doth  take  his  towering  flight, 
And  in  his  course  outflies  our  very  sight. 
Bears  down  the  fluttering  fowl  with  all  his  might. 

See  how  the  wary  gunner  casts  about. 
Watching  the  fittest  posture  when  to  shoot: 
Quick  as  the  fatal  lightning  blasts  the  oak, 
He  gives  the  springing  fowl  a  sudden  stroke  ; 
He  pours  upon  't  a  shower  of  mortal  lead, 
And  ere  the  noise  is  heard  the  fowl  is  dead. 

Sometimes  he  spreads  his  hidden  subtile  snare. 
Of   which  the  entangled  fowl  was  not  aware ; 
Through  pathless  wastes  he  doth  pursue  his  sport. 
Where  nought  but  moor-fowl  and  wild  beasts  resort 

When  the  noon  sun  directly  darts  his  beams 
Upon  your  giddy  heads,  with  fiery  gleams. 
Then  you  may  bathe  yourself   in  cooling  streams  ; 
Or  to  the  sweet  adjoining  grove  retire. 
Where  trees  with  interwoven  boughs  conspire 
To  form  a  grateful  shade; — there  rural  swains 
Do  tune  their  oaten  reeds  to  rural  strains ; 
The  silent  birds  sit  listening  on  the  sprays, 
And  in  soft  charming  notes  do  imitate  their  lays. 
There  you  mav  stretch  yourself   upon  the  grass. 
And,  lulled  with  music,  to  kind  slumbers  pass : 
ISFo  meagre  cares  your  fancy  will  distract, 
And  on  that  scene  no  tragic  fears  will  act ; 


44 


THOMSON. 


Save  the  dear  image  of   a  charming  slie, 
Nought  will  tlie  object  of   your  vision  be. 

Away  the  vicious  pleasures  of   the  town ; 
Let  empty  jjartial  fortune  on  me  frown ; 
But  grant,  ye  powers,  that  it  may  be  my  lot 
To  live  in  peace  from  noisy  towns  remote. 


7^*, 


COLLINS. 

ODE   TO   EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear. 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales ; 

0  Nymph  reserved,   while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts. 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save   where  the  weak-eyed  bat. 
With  short  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing ; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return ! 

12  4S 


46 


COLLINS. 


For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  tne  day. 


And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet. 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 


Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene ; 
Or  find  some  ruin,   'midst  its  dreary  dells. 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 


ODE    TO    EVKNING.  47 

Or,  if   chill  blustering  winds,   or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 

That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ; 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  th}^  lap  with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  regardful  of   thy  quiet  rule. 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  love  thy  favorite  name  ! 


48  COLLIiN'S. 


DIRGE  IN   CYMBELINE. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  sliall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove ; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen ; 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew : 
The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew ! 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours. 
Shall   kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers. 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

Wlien  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  thy  sylvan  cell; 

Or  'midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain. 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell ; 

Each  lonely  scene  sliall  thee  restore; 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  ; 
Beloved   lill   life  can  charm  no  more, 
And   mourned   till   Pity's  self   bo  dead. 


.,^- 


rmA  r2sl 


r 


v^^. 


GRAY. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of   parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

13  49 


50  GRAY. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 


Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf   in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed. 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 


For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 

Their  fun-ow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke 


THE   ELEGY. 


51 


Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth,  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour: 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 


Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 


52  GRAY. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of   death? 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of   empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 


But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of   time,  did  ne'er  um'oll ; 

Chill  penury  rej)ressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of   the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of"  purest  ray  serene. 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


Some  village-Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
Tlie  little  tyrant  of   his  fields  withstood ; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 


The  applause  of   listening  senates  to  command, 
Tlie  threats  of   pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o  er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 


THE    KLEGY.  53 

Their  lot  forbade  :    nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,   but  their  crimes  confined ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  tlu'one, 
And  phut  the  gates  of   mercy  on  mankind; 


The  struggling  pangs  of   conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of   luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 


Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noi&eless  tenor  of   their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of   fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 


For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  lono;ino;  lincferiuo;  look  behind? 

o      o  o  o 

14 


54  GRAY. 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
Ev'u  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 


For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate  ; 

If   chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led. 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn  : 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree ; 

Another  came;    nor  yet. beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he : 


THE    EI-EGY. 


b'y 


"The  next,  wilh  dirges  clue  in  sad  array, 

Slow  tliro'  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 


THE   EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of   Earth, 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown: 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  liim  for  her  own. 


56  GRAY. 

Large  was  bis  bounty,  and  bis  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  Misery  (all  be  bad)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  be  wisbed)  a  friend 

No  fartber  seek  bis  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  bis  frailties  from  tbeir  dread  abode 

(Tbere  tbey  alike  in  trembling  bope  repose), 
Tbe  bosom  of  bis  Fatber  and  bis  God. 


THE    BAED. 


"Ruin  seize  tbee,  rutbless  King! 

Confusion  on  tby  banners  wait ! 
Tbougb  fanned  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing, 

Tbey  mock  tbe  air  witb  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  bauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  ev'n  tby  virtues,  Tyrant,  sball  avail 

To  save  tby  secret  soul  from  nigbtly  fears. 

From  Cambria's  curse,  i'rom  Cambria's  tears!" 
Sucb  were  tbe  sounds  tbat  o'er  tbe  crested  pride 

Of  tbe  first  Edward  scattered  wild  dismay, 
As  down  tbe  steep  of  Snowdon's  sbaggy  side 

He  wound  witb  toilsome  marcb  bis  long  array. 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  agbast  in  speechless  trance  : 
"To  arms!"   cried   Mortimer,  and  coucbed  bis  quivering 
lance. 


THR    BAUD. 


57 


On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow- 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Eobed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe. 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air), 
And  with  a  master's  hand,  and  prophet's  fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 
"Hark,  how  each  giant  oak,  and  desert  cave, 

Sishs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath  ! 
O'er  thee,  0  King  !    their  hundred  arras  they  wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

"Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hushed  the  stormy  main  : 
Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 

Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  PHnlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topt  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie, 
Smeared  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale  : 
Far,  far  aloof  th'  affrighted  ravens  sail, 

The  famished  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art. 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries — 
No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep. 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land  : 

O 


58  GRAY. 

With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 

And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 

"Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race. 

Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night. 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  aflfright 
The  shrieks  of  death,  thro'  Berkley's  roof  that  ring. 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king ! 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven.    What  terrors  round  him  wait! 
-Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined. 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 

'-'  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord ! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies  ! 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 

Is  the  sable  warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm,  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes ; 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  tlie  helm ; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway. 
That,  hu.shed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey. 


THE    BAED.  59 

"Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare  ; 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast: 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Pell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed. 

Revere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head. 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread : 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom. 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 

"Edward,  lo !    to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun.) 

Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.) 
Stay,  oh,  stay !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But,  oh !    what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 

Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ! 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul  ! 


60  GEAY. 

No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 

All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings,  Britannia's  issue,  hail ! 

"Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton  line  ; 
Her  lion  port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 
Attempered  sweet  to  virgin  grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air. 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play  ! 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear ; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and,   soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  heaven  her  many-colored  wings. 

"The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 

In  buskined  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Fain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 

A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub  choir. 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear ; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 

That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud, 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 


TIIK    BARD. 


61 


Enough  for  me ;    witli  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign. 


Be  thine  despair,  and  sceptred  care ; 

To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  phmged  to  endless  night. 


16 


GOLDSMITH. 

THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain. 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed : 

62 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAOE. 


63 


Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  conld  please ! 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
^Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 


r?^=^^: 


;%®f- 


How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill, 


64  GOLDSMITH. 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  ; 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round: 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown. 

By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place  ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love. 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 

These  were  thy  charms, — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn ! 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 


THE    DESERTED    VIIjLAGE.  65 

The  hollow-souncling  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
A.midst  thy  desert-walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade, — 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made : 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man ; 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health. 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered :  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  : 
Along  the  kiwu,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose ; 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied ; 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room. 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

17      / 


66  GOLDSMITH. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew,- 
Remembrance  wakes,  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of   care, 
In  all  my  griefs, — and  God  has  given  my  share, — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose ; 
I  still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us  still- 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw,  ■ 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue. 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return,— and  die  at  home  at  last, 

0  blest  retiremcyit !    friend  to  life's  decline. 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
Plow  happy  he  wlio  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep ; 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE. 


67 


J^o  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend, — 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  Resignation  gently  slopes  the  way, — 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 


Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ;' 


6g  GOLDSMITH. 

There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 

The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  ; 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung. 

The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young; 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 

The   playful  children   just  let  loose  from  school ; 

The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 

And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind, — 

These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 

And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 

No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 

For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 

All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring; 

She,  wi-etched  matron, — forced  in  age,  for  bread. 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn, — 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain ! 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  gi-ows  wild, — 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear ; 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place; 
Unpractised  lie  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  I'ashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  69 

Far  other  aims  liis  heart  had  learned  to  prize, — 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain : 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of   sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  : 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side  ; 
But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt,  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control. 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

18 


70 


GOLDSMITH. 


At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  fi'om  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 


The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 

Even  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile. 

And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  sinile. 


THE    DKSERTED    VILLAGE.  71 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distrest; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,'  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed,  with  counterfeited  glee. 
At  all  his  jokes, — for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned ; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if   severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learnino;  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew ; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For  even  though  vanquished  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  o-azina:  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carrv  all  he  knew. 


72 


GOLDSMITH. 


But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot, 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound. 
And  news  much  older  tlian  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place : 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  73 

The  whitewashed  Wcall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, — 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day. 
With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay ; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors  !    could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks ;    nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart ; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  wilHng  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!    let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway ; 


19 


74  GOLDSMITH. 

Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined ; 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, — 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 

And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 

The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore ; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains :    this  wealth  is  but  a  name, 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies ; 
While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE.         '  75 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past, — for  charms  are  frail, — 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress ; 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed: 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed, — 
But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 
While,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save. 
The  country  blooms, — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where,  then,  ah  !    where  shall  poverty  reside. 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If   to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed. 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of   wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If   to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here  while  the  courtier  ghtters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 


76  GOLDSMITH. 

Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 

The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  ! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal   joy  ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?     Ah  !    turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest. 

Has  wept  at  tales  of   innocence  distrest ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thoin  ; 

Now,  lost  to  all, — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, — 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of   the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of   country   brown. 

Do  thine,   sweet  Auburn,   thine,   the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread. 

Ah,  no!     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  lialf   the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Wliere  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
Tlie   various  fci'roi's  of    tliat  liorrid   shore; 


THE   DESERTED    VILLAGE.  77 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downwai-d  my 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling; 

Those  poisonous  fields,  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around ; 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, — 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they  ; 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 

Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 

The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green. 

The  breezy  covert  of   the  warbling  grove. 

That  only  sheltered  thefts  of   harmless  love. 

Good  .Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past. 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  Ions;  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep! 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first,  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of    his  helpless  years, 

20 


78  GOLDSMITH. 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

0  Luxury  !    thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree. 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,   with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of   a  florid  vigor  not  their  own. 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe  ; 
Till,  sapped  Lhcir  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun. 
And  half   the  business  of   destruction  done  ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land : 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move, — a  melancholy  band, — 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and   fiilhful   love. 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  79 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry !    thou  loveliest  maid, 

Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 

Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 

To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame, — 

Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 

My  shame  in  crowds,  my  soUtary  pride, — 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe. 

That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so, — 

Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 

Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue, — fare  thee  well ! 

Farewell ;    and,  oh !    where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 

On  Tornea's  cUffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 

Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 

Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime  : 

Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 

Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain; 

Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest, 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 

That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 

As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away ; 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


80 


GOLDSMITH. 


RETALIATION. 


Of  old,  when  Bcarrdn  his  companions  invited, 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united ; 
If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself, — and  he  brings  the  best  dish : 
Our  dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains ; 
Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains ; 
Our  Will  shall  be  wildfowl,  of  excellent  flavor, 
And  Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  savor; 


RETALIATION.  81 

Our  Cumberland's  sweetbread  its  place  shall  obtain, 
And  Douglas  is  jjudding,  substantial  and  plain ; 
Our  Garrick's  a  salad, — for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree : 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am 
That  Ridge  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb ; 
That  Hickey's  a  capon,  and,  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,   and  stick  to  the  last? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine  !    let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table  ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head. 
Let  me  ponder — and  tell  what  I  think  of   the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mixed  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with  mirth: 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt, — 
At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  'em  out ; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such. 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind. 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining. 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining: 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman ;    too  proud  for  a  wit ; 

21 


82  GOLDSMITH. 

For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;    for  a  drudge,  disobedient ; 
And  too  foad  of  the  rigid  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short,   'twas  his  fate,   uueinployed  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint. 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in't; 
The  pupil  of   impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,   with  his  argument  wrona; ; 
Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam, — 
The  coachman  was  tips}^,  the  chariot  drove  home : 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits?    alas!    he  had  none; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were  his  own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at- 
Alas  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his  !    what  wit  and  what  whim  1 
Now  breaking  a  jest, — and  now  breaking  a  limb ; 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball ; 
Now  teasing  and  vexing — yet  laughing  at  all ! 
Tn  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wished  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old  Nick; 
But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 
As  often  we  wished  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts. 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine ; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizened  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout. 


RKTALtATION. 


83 


His  fools  have  their  folhes  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of   virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught. 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf. 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, — 
The  scourge  of   impostors,  the  terror  of   quacks : 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  yc  quacking  divines. 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  feared  for  your  safety,  I  feared  for  my  own ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector. 
Our  Dodds  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  shall  lecture ; 
Macpherson  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style ; 
Our  Townsliend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile ; 
New  Lauders  and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over, 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover ; 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark. 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the  darl 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of   all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine. 
As  a  wit,  if   not  first,  in  the  very  first  line : 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings, — a  dupe  to  liis  art. 


84  goldsmith;. 

Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off,  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day ; 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick. 
He  cast  off   his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack. 
For  he  knew,  when  he  pleased,  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came. 
And  the  puff  of   a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till,  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease. 
Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  b"  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind: 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave. 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave  1 
How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 
While  he  was  be-Rosciused  and  you  were  bepraised ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,   wherever  it  flies. 
To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies. 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will. 
Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise   and  with  love. 
And  Beauraonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature ; 
He  cherished  his  friend,  and  he  relished  a  bumper ; 
Yet  one.  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser? 
r  answer,  No.  no, — for  he  always  was  wiser ; 


RETALIATION.  85 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat? 

His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that; 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?     Ah,  no ! 

Then  what  was  his  failing  ?  come,  tell  it,  and  burn  ye : — 

He  was — could  he  help  it? — a  special  attorney. 


Heie  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind. 

22 


86  GOLDSMITH. 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand : 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland  •. 

Still  born  t"  improve  us  in  every  part, — 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 

When   they  judged  without   skill,  he  was   still   hard   of 

hearing : 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff". 
Ho  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff". 


BEATTIE. 


MORNING  LANDSCAPE. 


Even  now  his  eyes  with  smiles  of  rapture  glow, 
As  on  he  wanders  through  the  scenes  of  morn, 

Where  the  fresh  flowers  in  living  lustre  blow, 
Where  thousand  pearls  the  dewy  lawns  adorn, 
A  thousand  notes  of  joy  in  every  breeze  are  boi'n. 

87 


88  BEATTIE. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain-side ; 
The  lowing  herd  ;    the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 

The  pipe  of   early  shepherd  dim  descried 

In  the  lone  valley ;    echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide ; 
The  hum  of   bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage-curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark  : 

Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings ; 
The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield ;    and,  hark ! 

Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings ; 

Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs ; 
Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour ; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings ; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 


THE   HERMIT. 


At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove. 

When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  nought  but  tlie  niglitiugalo's  song  in  the  grove;- 


THE    HERMIT. 


89 


'Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 

While  his  heart  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit  began 

No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war. 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man. 


"Ah!    why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and  woe, 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 
For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthrall ; 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay, 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn: 
Oh,  soothe  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass  away; 

Full  quickly  they  pass, — but  they  never  return. 


23 


90  BEATTIE. 

"Now  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 

The  moon  half  exilnguished  her  crescent  displays ; 
But  lately  I  marked,  when  majestic  on  high 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor  again ; 
But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew? 

Ah,  fool !    to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

"  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more  ; 

I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you ; 
For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore. 

Perfumed    with    fresh    fragrance,    and    glittering    with 
dew  : 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn  ; 

Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save. 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn? 

Oh,  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ? 

"'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, 

That  leads,  to  bewilder ;    and  dazzles,  to  blind ; 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to  shade. 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow-  behind. 
'0  pity,  great  Father  of  Light,'  then  I  cried, 

'Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee; 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free!' 

"  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away, 
No  longer  1  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn  : 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint,  and  astray. 
The  briglit  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of   morn. 


THE    HERMIT.  91 

Sec  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 
And  Nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom  ! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 
And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 


THE  SAGE. 


At  early  dawn  the  youth  his  journey  took, 

And  many  a  mountain  passed  and  valley  wide, 
Then  reached  the  wild  where,  in  a  flowery  nook, 

And  seated  on  a  mossy  stone,  he  spied 
A.n  ancient  man ;    his  harp  lay  him  beside. 

A  stag  sprung  from  the  pasture  at  his  call. 
And,  kneeling,  licked  the  withered  hand  that  tied 

A  wreath  of  woodbine  round  his  antlers  tall. 
And  hung  his  loft}^  neck  with  many  a  floweret  small. 


COWPEK. 


RURAL  SOUNDS. 


Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds, 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 


92 


RURAL   SOUNDS.  93 

Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind, — 
Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighboring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 
Nature  inanimate  displays  sweet  sounds, 
But  animated  nature  sweeter  still. 
To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  livelong  night ;    nor  these  alone  whose  notes 
Nice-fingered  art  must  emulate  in  vain. 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, — 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl 
That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh. 
Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  forever  reigns, 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

24 


94  COWPER. 


LOVE  OF   NATURE. 


'Tis  born  with  all :    the  love  of   Nature's  works 

Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound  man, 

Infused  at  the  creation  of   the  kind. 

And,  though  the  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 

Discriminated  each  fi-om  each,  by  strokes 

And  touches  of  his  liand,  with  so  much  art 

Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 

Twins  at  all  points, — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 

That  all  discern  a  beauty  in  his  works. 

And  all  can  taste  them :    minds,  that  have  been  formed 

And  tutored  with  a  relish,  more  exact. 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmoved. 

It  is  a  flame  that  dies  not  even  there. 

Where  nothing  feeds  it :    neither  business,  crowds, 

Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life. 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 

In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt. 

Like  a  swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads, 

Prove  it.     A  breath  of  unadulterate  air, 

The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 

The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame ! 

Even  in  the  stifling  bosom  of   the  town, 

A  garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 

That  soothe  the  rich  possessor;    much  consoled 

That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint, 

Of  nightshade  or  valerian,  grace  the  wall 

He  cultivates.     These  serve  him  with  a  hint 

That  nature  lives ;    that  sight-refreshing  green 


LOVE   OF    NATURE.  95 

is  still  the  livery  she  delights  to  wear, 

Though  sickly  samples  of  the  exuberant  whole. 

What  are  the  casements  lined  with  creeping  herbs, 

The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 

Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed, 

The  Frenchman's  darling?     Are  they  not  all  proofs 

That  man,  immured  in  cities,  still  retains 

His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 

Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 

By  supplemental  shifts  the  best  he  may? 

The  most  unfurnished  with  the  means  of  life, 

And  they  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds 

To  range  the  fields  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air. 

Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct;    overhead 

Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick. 

And  watered  duly.     There  the  pitcher  stands 

A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  tea-pot  there ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 

The  country,  with  what  ardor  he  contrives 

A  peep  at  nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease, 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys 
And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  thronged  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown ;    hail,  rural  life ! 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honors,  or  emolument,  or  fame, 
I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase, 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 
Some  must  be  great.     Great  offices  will  have 
Great  talents.     And  God  gives  to  every  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 
That  lii'l.s  him  into  life,   and  lets  him  fall 


96 


COWPEE. 


Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordained  to  filL 

To  the  deliverer  of   an  injured  land 

He  gives  a  tongue  to  enlarge  upon,  a  heart 

To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress,  her  wrongs ; 

To  monarchs,  dignity ;    to  judges,  sense ; 

To  artists,  ingenuity  and  skill ; 

To  me,  an  unambitious  mind,  content 

In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 

A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 

Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I  wished. 


LINES. 


97 


LINES  ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTPIER'S  PICTURE. 


Oh  that  those  Hps  had  language !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 
0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 


25 


98  COWPER. 

Who  bidd'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 

Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

I  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 

Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief; 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother !    when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile !    it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  bui'ial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 
But  was  it  such  ?     It  was.     Where  thou  art  gone. 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return  : 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed. 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived ; 
]jy  disappointment  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  ray  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 


LINES.  99 

Where  once  wo  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  tliine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt. 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !    but  the  record  fair. 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,   that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  tliemes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  might'st  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
Tlie  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed: 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Tliy  constant  flow  of   love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memoiy's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 


100  COWPER. 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  wliile, 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile), 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 

Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  ; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !    hast  reached  the  shore 
"  Wliere  tempests  never  beat,   nor  billows  roar;" 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since,  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed — 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed. 
Sails  ript,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost ; 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet,  oh,  the  thought,   that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
Froin   loins  enthroned,  and   rulers  of   tlie  earth  ; 


A    COMPARISON.  101 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise, — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell, — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again  : 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of   violating  thine; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft, — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


A   COMPARISON. 

The  lapse  of  time  and  rivers  is  the  same, 

Both  speed  their  journey  with  a  restless  stream ; 

The  silent  pace,  with  which  they  steal  away. 

No  wealth  can  bribe,  no  prayers  persuade  to  stay ; 

Alike  irrevocable  both  when  past, 

And  a  wide  ocean  swallows  both  at  last. 

Though  each  resemble  each  in  every  part, 

A  difference  strikes  at  length  the  musing  heart : 

Streams  never  flow  in  vain ;  where  streams  abound, 

How  laughs  the  land  with  various  plenty  crowned ! 

But  time,  that  should  enrich  the  nobler  mind, 

Neglected  leaves  a  di-eary  waste  behind. 

26 


BURNS. 


P\i)d(^^  HiM^^-  j^^_ 


TAM   0'  SHANTER. 


When  chapman  billies  leave  the  sti-eet, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  talc'  the  gate; 


102 


TAM    0     SHANTER. 


103 


While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  gettin'  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 

0  Tam !    hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 

As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice ! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 

A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum, 

That  :^ae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  wasna  sober ; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller. 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 

That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on. 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on ; 

That  at  the  Lord's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 

Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesied,  that  late  or  soon. 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in  Doon ; 

Or  catched  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames !    it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  monv  counsels  sweet, 


104  BURNS. 

How  mony  lengtheQed  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 
But  to  our  tale : — Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right; 
Fast  by  an  ingle  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that" drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony ; 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  week  thegither ! 
The  night  draveou  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better ; 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favors  secret,  sweet,  and  precious ; 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle — 
Tam  didna  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 
Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy. 
E'en  drowned  himself  arnang  the  nappy ! 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleasure  : 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'    life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 


TAM   O'    SHANTER.  105 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tarn  maun  ride ; 

That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  keystane, 

The  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in 

As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellowed; 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand^ 
The  de'il  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weal-  mounted  on  his  gray  mare  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 
Tam  skelpit  on  through  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet ; 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet; 
Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk-AUoway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. — 
By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  foord, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  snioor'd ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane ; 
And  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hangjed  hersel'. 

27 


106  BURNS. 

Before  liim  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 

The  doubling  storra  roars  through  the  woods ; 

The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Near  and  more. near  the  thunders  roll; 

"When,  glimmering  through  the  groaning  trees, 

Kirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze ; 

Through  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing; 

And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring,  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  ! 

Wi'  ti^penny  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  the  devil ! 

The  swats  sae  reamed  in  Tammie's  noddle, 

Fair  play,  he  cared  nae  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonished. 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonished, 

She  ventured  forward  on  the  light; 

And  wow  !     Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ; 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance ; 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels. 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels ; 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east. 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 

A  towsie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ; 

He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. — 

Cofiins  stood  round,  like  open  presses. 

That  shawed  the  dead  in  tliejr  last  dresses. 

And  by  some  devilisli  cantrip  slight 

Each  ill  its  cauld  hand  held  a  liglit — 


TAM    0     SHANTER. 


107 


By  wliicli  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 
Twa  span-long,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 
A  thief  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red  rusted; 
Five  scimitai-s,  wi'   murder  crusted; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft: 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  elowr'd,   amazed  and  curious, 

The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious: 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 

They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit, 

Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tam,  0  Taml    had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen. 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen -hunder  linen, 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdies 
For  ae  blink  o'  tlie  bonnie  burdies  1 


108  BURNS. 

But  witliered  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags,  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenned  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie, 

There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 

That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenned  on  Oarrick  shore ; 

For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perished  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear.) 

Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn. 

That,  while  a  lassie,  she  had  worn. 

In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 

Ah !    little  kenned  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  of  witches ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour ; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitched, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enriched ; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,    and  fidged  fu'  fain. 
And  hotched  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 


TAM    0     SIIANTER. 


109 


And  roars  out,   "Weel  done,  cutty-sark !" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark ; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 

As  02)en  pussie's  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop !    she  starts  before  their  nose ; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 

When  "Catch  the  thief!"    resounds  aloud; 

So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollow. 


110  BURNS. 

All,  Tarn !    Ah,  Tam  !    thou'U  get  thy  fairin' ! 

In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin'  ! 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin' ! 

Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman ! 

Now  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  keystane  of  the  brig ; 

There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 

A  running  stream  they  darena  cross ! 

But  ere  the  keystane  she  could  make, 

The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ! 

For  l!Tannie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  pressed, 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  farious  ettle ; 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 

Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale. 

But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 

The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed; 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined. 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think !    ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear — 
Kemember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


MAN    WAS    MADE   TO    MOURN. 


Ill 


MAN   WAS  MADE   TO    MOURN. 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 


I  spied  a  man  wnose  aged  step 
Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care ; 

His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years, 
And  hoary  was  his  hair. 


112  BURNS. 

"Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou?' 

Began  the  reverend  sage  ; 
"Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  pressed  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man. 

"The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride : 
I've  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return, 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"0  man!    while  in  thy  early  years. 

How  prodigal  of  time ! 
Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours. 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway ; 

Licentious  passions  burn ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime. 

Or  manhood's  active  might; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  in  his  right : 


MAN    WAS    MADK    TO    MOUKN.  113 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  hfe, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn ; 
Then  age  and  want — oh !    ill-matched  pair  ! — ■ 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  caressed : 
Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  oh  !    what  crowds  in  every  land, 

All  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  num'rous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn ! 

"See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabored  wight. 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the.  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn.  • 


29 


114  BURNS. 

"  If  I'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave — 

By  Nature's  law  designed — • 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

"Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 
This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  best ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

"0  Death!    the  poor  man's  dearest  friend- 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow. 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn; 
But,  oh !    a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn." 


TO    MARY    IN    HEAVEN. 


115 


TO   MARY    IN    HEAVEN. 

Thou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again   tliou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary  !    dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


•^s^. 


That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 
Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove. 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 
To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 


116  BUENS. 

Eternity  cannot  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ; 

Ah !    Httle  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with'  wildwoods,  thick'ning,  green  ; 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined  am'rous  round  the  raptured  scene ; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  pressed. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray — 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ! 
Time  but  tli'  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


?      i*^* 


<_y^T>77z  ^cyxc>--u.£yT^ . 


ROGERS. 

COLL'  ALTO. 


"  In  this  neglected  mirror  (the  broad  frame 
Of  massy  silver  serves  to  testify 
That  many  a  noble  matron  of  the  house 
Has  sat  before  it)  once,  alas,  was  seen 

30  117 


118  ROGEES. 

What  led  to  many  sorrows.     From  that  time 

The  bat  came  hither  for  a  sleeping-place ; 

And  he,  that  cm'sed  another  in  his  heart, 

Said,   'Be  thy  dwelling,  through  the  day  and  night, 

Shunned  like  Coll'  alto.'"- — 'Twas  in  that  old  Pile, 

Which  flanks  the  cliff  with  its  gray  battlements 

Flung  here  and  there,  and,  like  an  eagle's  nest. 

Hangs  in  the  Tkevisan,  that  thus  the  Steward, 

Shaking  his  locks,  the  few  that  Time  had  left. 

Addressed  me,  as  we  entered  what  was  called 

"My  Lady's  Chamber."     On  the  walls,  the  chairs, 

Much  yet  remained  of  the  rich  tapestry ; 

Much  of  the  adventures  of  Sir  Lancelot 

In  the  green  glades  of  some  enchanted  wood. 

The  toilet-table  was  of  silver  wrought, 

Florentine  Art,  when  Florence  was  renowned ; 

A  gay  confusion  of  the  elements, 

Dolphins  and  boys,  and  shells  and  fruits  and  flowers : 

And  from  the  ceiling,  in  his  gilded  cage, 

Hung  a  small  bird  of  curious  workmanship. 

That,  when  his  mistress  bade  him,  would  unfold 

(So  says  the  babbling  Dame,  Tradition,  there) 

His  emerald  wings,  and  sing  and  sing  again 

The  song  that  pleased  her.     While  I  stood  and  looked, 

A  gleam  of  day  yet  lingering  in  the  west. 

The  Steward  went  on.     "She  had  ('tis  now  long  since) 

A  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  Cristine, 

Fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  spotless  too ; 

None  so  admired,  beloved.     They  had  grown  up 

As  play-fellows ;    and  some  there  were,  that  said. 

Some  that  knew  much,  discoursing  of  Cristine, 

'  She  is  not  what  she  seems.'     When  unrequired, 


coll'  alto.  119 

She  would  steal  forth  ;    licr  custom,  her  delight, 
To  wander  through  aud  through  an  ancient  grove 
Self-planted  half-way  down,  losing  herself 
Like  one  in  love  with  sadness ;    and  her  veil 
And  vesture  white,  seen  ever  in  that  place. 
Ever  as  surely  as  the  hours  came  round, 
Among  those  reverend  trees,  gave  her  below 
The  name  of  The  White  Lady.     But  the  day 
Is  gone,  and  I  delay  thee. 

In  that  chair 
The  Countess,  as  it  might  be  now,  was  sitting. 
The  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  Cristine, 
Combing  her  golden  hair ;    and  through  this  door 
The  Count,  her  lord,  was  hastening,  called  away 
By  letters  of  great  urgency  to  Venice ; 
When  in  the  glass  she  saw,  as  she  believed 
('Twas  an  illusion  of  the  Evil  One — 
Some  say  he  came  and  crossed  it  at  the  time), 
A  smile,  a  glance  at  parting,  given  and  answered. 
That  turned  her  blood  to  gall.     That  very  night 
The  deed  was  done.     That  night,  ere  yet  the  moon 
Was  up  on  Monte  Calvo,  and  the  wolf 
Baying  as  still  he  does  (oft  is  he  heard, 
An  hour  or  more,  by  the  old  turret  clock). 
They  led  her  forth,  the  unhappy  lost  Cristine, 
Helping  her  down  in  her  distress — to  die. 

"No  blood  was  spilt;    no  instrument  of   death 
Lurked — or  stood  forth,  declaring  its  bad  purpose ; 
Nor  was  a  hair  of   her  unblemished  head 
Hurt  ic  that  hour.     Fresh  as  a  flower  just  blown, 
And  warm  witli  life,  her  youthful  pulses  playing. 
She  was  wallod  up  witliin  llie  Castle  wall. 
The  wall  itself   was  hollowed  secretlv ; 


120 


ROGERS. 


Then  closed  again,  and  done  to  line  and  rule. 

Would'st  thou  descend? 'Tis  in  a  darksome  vault 

Under  the  Chapel :    and  there  nightly  now, 

As  in  the  narrow  niche,  when  smooth  and  fair, 

And  as  if  nothing  had  been  done  or  thought, 


The  stone-work  rose  before  her,  till  the  light 
Glimmered  and  went, — there  nightly  at  that  hour, 
(Thou  smil'st,  and  would  it  were  an  idle  tale !) 
In  her  white  veil  and  vesture  white  she  stands 
Shuddering — her  eyes  uplifted,  and  her  hands 
Joined  as  in  prayer;    then,  like  a  Blessed  Soul 
Bursting  the  tomb,  springs  forward,  and  away 
Flies  o'er  the  woods  and  mountains.     Issuing  forth. 
The  hunter  meets  her  in  his  hunting-track; 
The  shepherd  on  the  heath,  starting,  exclaims 
(For  still  she  bears  the  name  she  bore  of  old), 
"Tis  the  White  Lady!"" 


THE    BRIDES    OF    VENICK.  12] 


THE  BRIDES   OF   VENICE. 


It  was  St.  Mary's  Eve,  and  all  poured  fortli 

As  to  some  grand  solemnity.     The  fislier 

Came  from  his  islet,  bringing  o'er  the  waves 

His  wife  and  little  one  ;    the  husbandman 

From  the  Firm  Land,  along  the  Po,  the  Brenta, 

Crowding  the  common  ferry.     All  arrived ; 

And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turned  and  listened, 

So  great  the  stir  in   Venice.     Old  and  young 

Thronged  her  three  hundred  bridges  ;    the  grave  Turk, 

Turbaned,  long-vested,  and  the  cozening  Jew, 

In  yellow  hat  and  threadbare  gaberdine. 

Hurrying  along.     For,  as  the  custom  was, 

The  noblest  sons  and  daughters  of  the  state, 

They  of  Patrician  birth,  the  flower  of  Venice, 

Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Book  of   Gold, 

Were  on  that  day  to  solemnize  their  nuptials. 

At  noon,  a  distant  murmur  through  the  crowd, 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  announced  their  coming ; 
And  never  from  the  first  was  to  be  seen 
Such  splendor  or  such  beauty.     Two  and  two 
(The  richest  tapestry  unrolled  before  them), 
.First  came  the  Brides  in  all  their  loveliness ; 
Each  in  her  veil,  and  by  two  bride-maids  followed. 
Only  less  lovely,   who  behind  her  bore 
The  precious  caskets  that  within  contained 
The  dowry  and  tiie  presents.     On  she  moved, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
A  fan  that  gently  waved,  of  ostrich-feathers. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer, 


122  KOGERS. 

Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem  ; 

And  on  her  dazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone, 

Ruby  or  diamond  or  dark  amethyst ; 

A   jewelled  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath, 

Wreathino-  her  gold  brocade. 

Before  the  Church, 
That  venerable  structure  now  no  more 
On  the  sea-brink,  another  train  they  met, 
No  strangers,  nor  unlooked  for  ere  they  came, 
Brothers  to  some,  still  dearer' to  the  rest; 
Each  in  his  hand  bearing  his  cap  and  plume, 
And,  as  he  walked,  with  modest  dignitv 
Foldino;  his  sctirlet  mantle.     At  the  gate 
They  join  ;    and  slowly  up  the  bannered  aisle 
Led  by  the  choir,   with  due  solemnity 
Range  round  the  altar.     Tn  his  vestments  there 
The  Patriarch  stands ;    and,   while  the  anthem  flows 
Who  can  look  on  unmoved — the  dream  of  years 
Just  now  fulfilling!     Here  a  mother  weeps. 
Rejoicing  in  her  daughter.     There  a  son 
Blesses  the  day  that  is  to  make  her  his ; 
While  she  shines  forth  through  all  her  ornament, 
Her  beauty  heightened  by  her  hopes  and  fears. 
At  length  the  rite  is  ending.     All  fall  down, 
All  of   all  ranks ;    and,  stretching  out  Ins  hands, 
Apostle-like,  the  holy  man  proceeds 
To  give  the  blessing — not  a  stir,  a  breath ; 
When  liark,  a  din  of   voices  from  without. 
And  shrieks  and  groans  and  outcries  as  in  battle ! 
And  lo,  the  door  is  burst,  the  curtain  rent. 
And  arm6d  ruffians,  robbers  from  the  deep, 
Savage,  uncouth,  led  on  by  Barbaro, 


THE    BRIDES   OK    VENICE. 


123 


And  his  six  brothers  in  their  coats  of  steel, 
Are  standing  on  the  threshold!     Statue-like, 
Awhile  they  gaze  on  the  fallen  multitude, 
Each  with  his  sabre  up,  in  act  to  strike; 
Then,  as  at  once  recovering  from  the  spell, 
Rush  forward  to  the  altar,  and  as  soon 
Are  gone  again — amid  no  clash  of  arms 
Bearing  away  the  maidens  and  the  treasures. 

Where  are  they  now? — ploughing  the  distant  waves, 
Their  sails  outspread  and  given  to  the  wind. 
They  on  their  decks  triumphant.     On  they  speed. 
Steering  for  Istria  ;    their  accursed  barks 
(Well  are  they  known,  the  galliot  and  the  galley) 
Freighted,  alas,  with  all  that  life  endears! 
The  richest  argosies  were  poor  to  them ! 

Now  hadst  thou  seen  along  that  crowded  shore 
The  matrons  running  wild,  their  festal  dress 
A  strange  and  moving  contrast  to  their  grief; 
And  through  the  city,  wander  where  thou  wouldst, 
The  men  half  armed  and  arming— everywhere 
As  roused  from  slumber  by  that  stirring  trump; 
One  with  a  shield,  one  with  a  casque  and  spear; 
One  with  an  axe  severing  in  two  the  chain 
Of  some  old  pinnace.     Not  a  raft,  a  plank, 
But  on  that  day  was  drifting.     In  an  hour 
Half  Venice  was  afloat.     But  long  before. 
Frantic  with  grief  and  scorning  all  control, 
The  Youths  were  gone  in  a  light  brigantine. 
Lying  at  anchor  near  the  Arsenal; 
Each  having  sworn,  and  by  the  holy  rood. 
To  slay  or  to  be  slain. 

And  from  the  tower 
The  watchman  gives  the  signal.     In  the  east 


124  ROGERS. 

A  ship  is  seen,  and  making  for  the  Port ; 

Her  flag  St.  Mark's.     And  now  she  turns  the  point, 

Over  the  waters  Hke  a  sea-bird  flying! 

Ha,   'tis  the  same,   'tis  theirs  !    from  stern  to  prow 

Green  with  victorious  wreaths,  she  comes  to  bring 

All  that  was  lost. Coasting,  with  narrow  search, 

Friuli — like  a  tiger  in  his  spring. 

They  had  surprised  the  Corsairs  where  they  lay 

Sharing  the  spoil  in  blind  security 

And  casting  lots — had  slain  them,  one  and  all. 

All  to  the  last,  and  flung  them  far  and  wide 

Into  the  sea,  their  proper  element; 

Him  first,  as  first  in  rank,  whose  name  so  long 

Had  hushed  the  babes  of  Venice,  and  who  yet. 

Breathing  a  little,  in  his  look  retained 

The  fierceness  of   his  soul. 

Thus  were  the  Brides 
Lost  and  recovered ;   and  what  now  remained 
But  to  give  thanks?     Twelve  breast-plates  and  twelve 

crowns, 
By  the  young  Victors  to  their  Patron-Saint 
Vowed  in  the  field,  inestimable  gifts. 
Flaming  with  gems  and  gold,  were  in  due  time 
Laid  at  his  feet;    and  ever  to  preserve 
The  memory  of  a  day  so  full  of  change. 
From   joy  to  grief,  from  grief   to  joy  again. 
Thro'  many  an  age,  as  oft  as  it  came  round, 
'Twas  held  religiously.     The  Doge  resigned 
His  crimson  for  pure  ermine,  visiting 
At  earliest  dawn  St.  Mary's  silver  shrine ; 
A.nd  through  the  city,  in  a  stately  barge 
Of  gold,  were  borne  with  songs  and  symphonies 


THE    P.RIDKS    OF    VENICE. 


125 


Twelve  ladies,  young  and  noble.     Clad  they  were 

In  bridal  white  with  bridal  ornaments, 

Each  in  her  glittering  veil ;    and  on  the  deck, 

As  on  a  burnished  throne,   they  glided  by  ; 

No  window  or  balcony  but  adorned 

With  hangings  of   rich  texture,  not  a  roof 

But  covered  with  beholders,  and  the  air 

Vocal  with  joy.     Onward  they  went,  their  oars 

Moving  in  concert  with  the  harmony. 

Through  the  Rialto  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 

And  at  a  banquet,  served  with  honor  there, 

Sat  representing,  in  the  eyes  of   all, 

Eyes  not  unwet,  I  ween,  with  grateful  tears. 

Their  lovely  ancestors,  the  Brides  of  Venice. 

32 


126 


KOGEKS. 


DON   GARZIA. 


Among  those  awful  forms,  in  elder  time 

Assembled,  and  through  many  an  after-age 

Destined  to  stand  as  Genii  of  the  Place 

Where  men  most  meet  in  Florence,  may  be  seeu 

His  who  first  played  the  Tyrant.     Clad  in  mail, 

But  with  his  helmet  off — in  kingly  state. 

Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass ; 

And  they,  who  read  the  legend  underneath. 

Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     Yet,  methinks. 

There  is  a  chamber  that,  if  walls  could  speak, 

Would  turn  their  admiration  into  pity. 

Half  of  what  passed,  died  with  him  ;    but  tlic  rest, 

All  lie  discovered  when  the  fit  was  on, 


DON    GARZIA.  ,  127 

All  that,  by  those  who  listened,   could  be  gleaned 
From  broken  sentences  and  starts  in  sleep. 
Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  Chronicler. 

Two  of  his  sons,  Giovanni  and  Garzia, 
(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  nineteenth  summer,) 
Went  to  the  chase  ;    but  only  one  returned. 
Giovanni,  wJien  the  huntsman  blew  his  horn 
O'er  the  last  stag  had  started  from  the  brake, 
And  in  the  heather  turned  to  stand  at  bay, 
Appeared  not ;    and  at  close  of   day  was  found 
Bathed  in  his  innocent  blood.     Too  well,  alas, 
The  trembling  Cosmo  guessed  the  deed,  the  doer ; 
And,  having  caused  the  body  to  be  borne 
In  secret  to  that  Chamber — at  an  liour 
When  all  slept  sound,  save  she  who  bore  them  both, 
Who  little  thought  of   what  was  yet  to  come, 
And  lived  but  to  be  told — lie  bade  Garzia 
Arise  and  follow  him.     Hokhno;  in  one  hand 
A  winking  lamp,  and  in  the  other  a  key 
Massive  and  dungeon-like,  thither  he  led : 
And,  having  entered  in  and  locked  the  door, 
The  father  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  son, 
And  closely  questioned  him.     No  change  betrayed 
Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  Cosmo  lifted  up 
The  bloody  sheet.   "Look  there!  Look  there!"  he  cried. 
"Blood  calls  for  blood — and  from  a  father's  hand! 
— Unless  thyself   will  save  him  that  sad  office. 
What!"   he  exclaimed,   when,  shuddering  at  the  sight. 
The  boy  breathed  out,   "I  stood  but  on  my  guard;" 
"  Dar'st  thou   then  blacken  one  who  never  wronu'ed  thee. 
Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm  ? 
Yes,  thou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee, 
And  thou  shouklst  be  the  slaver  of   us  all." 


128  EOGERS. 

Then  from  Gaezia's  belt  he  drew  the  blade, 

The  fatal  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood  ; 

And,  kneeling  on  the  ground,   "Great  God!"   he  cried, 

"Grant  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  justice. 

Thou  knowest  Avhat  it  costs  me ;    but  alas, 

How  can  I  spare  myself,  sparing  none  else? 

Grant  me  the  strength,  the  will — and  oh  forgive 

The  sinful  soul  of  a  most  wretched  son. 

'Tis  a  most  wretched  father  that  implores  it." 

Long  on  Gaezia's  neck  he  hung  and  wept, 

Long  pressed  him  to  his  bosom  tenderly  ; 

And  then,   but  while  he  held  him  by  the  arm, 

Thrusting  him  backward,  turned  away  his  face, 

And  stabbed  hini  to  the  heart. 

Well  might  a  youth, 
Studious  of   men,  anxious  to  learn  and  know. 
When  in  the  train  of   some  great  embassy 
He  came,  a  visitant,  to  Cosmo's  court, 
Think  on  the  past ;    and,  as  he  wandered  through 
The  ample  spaces  of  an  ancient  house. 
Silent,  deserted— stop  awhile  to  dwell 
Upon  two  portraits  there,   drawn  on  the  wall 
Together,  as  of   Two  in  bonds  of   love. 
Those  of   the  unhappy  brothers,  and  conclude 
From  the  sad  looks  of  him  who  could  have  told 
The  terrible  truth. — —Well  mio;lit  he  heave  a  sigli 
For  poor  humanity,   when  he  beheld 
That  very  Cosmo  shaking  o'er  his  hre, 
Drowsy  and  deaf  and  inarticulate. 
Wrapt  in  his  nightgown,  o'er  a  sick  man's  mess, 
In  the  last  stage — death-struck  and  deadly  pale ; 
His  Wife,  another,  not  his  Eleanoe, 
At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 


GINEVEA.  129 


GINEVEA. 


If  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 

To  MoDENA,  where  still  religiously 

Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 

Bologna's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 

Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandine), 

Stop  at  a  Palace  near  the  Reggio  gate, 

Dwelt  iu  of  old  by  one  of  the  Oesini. 

Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 

And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses. 

Will  long  detain  thee ;    through  their  arche'd  walks, 

Dim  at  noonday,  discovering  many  a  glimpse 

Of  knights  and  dames,  such  as  in  old  romance, 

And  lovers,  such  as  in  heroic  song, 

Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  their  delight, 

Who  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sat. 

Venturing  together  on  a  tale  of   love. 

Read  only  part  that  day. A  summer  sun 

Sets  ere  one-half  is  seen ;    but  ere  thou  eo. 
Enter  the  house — pry  thee,  forget  it  not — • 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  very  last  of   that  illustrious  race. 
Done  by  Zampieei — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He,  who  observes  it — ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  though  she  said,   "  Beware  !"  her  vest  of   gold 

33 


130 


EOGEES. 


Broiclered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to  foot 

An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp ; 

And  on  hei  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 

A  coronet  of  pearls.     But  then  her  face, 

So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 

The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 

It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled. 

Like  some  wild  melody ! 


Alone  it  hangs, 
Over  a  mouldering  heirloom,  its  companion. 
An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm. 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  scripture-stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 


GINEVEA.  131 

The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor. 
That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture ;    and  thou  wilt  not, 
When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child;    from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  Sire. 
Her  Mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave, 
That  precious  gift,  what  else  remained  to  him? 
The  young  Ginevra  was  his  all  in  life. 
Still  as  she  grew,  forever  in  his  sight ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son.  Feancesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety ; 
Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come, — the  day,  the  hour : 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy ;    but  at  the  bridal  feast. 
When  all  sat  down,  the  Bride  was  wantino;  there. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
" 'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love!" 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all ;    but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still. 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas,  she  was  not  to  be  found ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  any  thing  be  guessed, 
But  that  she  was  not ! 


132  EOGEE.S. 

Weary  of   his  life, 
Feancesco  flew  to  Venice,  and  forthwith 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Oksini  lived;    and  long  might'st  thou  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of   something. 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers. 
Full  fifty  years  were  passed,  and  all  forgot. 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery. 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed ;    and  'twas  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
"Why  not  remove  it  fi'om  its  lurking-place?" 
'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said ;    but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell;    and  lo,  a  skeleton, 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald  stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of   gold. 
All  else  had  perished — save  a  nuptial  ring. 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself. 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy, — 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  forever  I 


r  ft  »^ 
f   IN 


'U 


^^/^^^>^^:^^z^^-^>^-/^ 


WORDSWORTH. 

A  EUEAL  HERO. 

The  mountain  ash 
No  eye  can  overlook,  when  'mid  a  grove 
Of  yet  unfaded  trees  she  Hfts  her  head 
Decked  with  autumnal  berries,  that  outshine 

34  134 


134 


WOEDSWOETH. 


Spring's  richest  blossoms ;    and  ye  may  have  marked 

By  a  brook  side  or  soHtary  tarn, 

How  she  her  station  doth  adorn.     The  pool 

Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 

Are  brightened  round  her.     In  his  native  vale, 


Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  youth  appear: 
A  sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts 
By  his  ingenuous  beauty,  by  the  gleam 
Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow, 
By  all  the  graces  with  which  nature's  hand 
Had  lavishly  arrayed  him.     As  old  bards 
Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wandering  gods, 


A   RURAL    HERO.  135 

Pan  or  Apollo,  veiled  in  human  form  ; 

Yet,  like  the  sweet-breathed  violet  of  the  shade, 

Discovered  in  their  own  despite  to  sense 

Of  mortals  (if  such  fables  without  blame 

May  find  chance  mention  on  this  sacred  ground). 

So,  through  a  simple  rustic  garb's  disguise. 

And  through  the  impediment  of  rural  cares, 

In  him  revealed  a  scholar's  genius  shone ; 

And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men's  sight. 

In  him  the  spirit  of  a  hero  walked 

Our  unpretending  valley.     How  the  quoit 

Whizzed  fi'om  the  stripling's  arm  !  If  touched  by  him, 

The  inglorious  football  mounted  to  the  pitch 

Of  the  lark's  flight,  or  shaped  a  rainbow  curve 

Aloft  in  prospect  of  the  shouting  field ! 

The  indefatigable  fox  had  learned 

To  dread  his  perseverance  in  the  chase. 

With  admiration  would  he  lift  his  eyes 

To  the  wide-ruling  eagle,  and  his  hand 

Was  loath  to  assault  the  majesty  he  loved, 

Else  had  the  strongest  fastnesses  proved  weak 

To  guard  the  royal  brood.     The  sailing  glede, 

The  wheeling  swallow,  and  the  darting  snipe, 

The  sporting  sea-gull  dancing  with  the  waves. 

And  cautious  wa,ter-fowl  from  distant  climes. 

Fixed  at  their  seat,  the  centre  of   the  mere, 

Were  subject  to  young  Oswald's  steady  aim. 


136 


WORDSWORTH. 


THE   SKATER. 


In  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twilight  gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons :    happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us, — for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture !     Clear  and  loud 
The  village  clock  tolled  six, — I  wheeled  about. 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod  with  steel, 


THE    SKATER.  137 

Wc  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 

Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 

And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding  horn, 

The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 

So  throuo-h  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew. 

And  not  a  voice  was  idle ;    with  the  din 

Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud ; 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 

Tinkled  like  iron ;    while  far  distant  hills 

Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 

Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 

Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 

The  orange  sky  of   evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 

Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 

Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng. 

To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star 

That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 

Upon  the  glassy  plain ;    and  oftentimes, 

When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 

Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 

The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 

Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 

Stopped  short;    yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 

Wheeled  by  me, — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round ! 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train. 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 

Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 

35 


138  WOEDSWOETH. 


ODE   TO   DUTY. 

Steen  Dauo-liter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 

0  Duty  !    if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  hght  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe. 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;    who,  in  love  and  truth, 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 

Glad  hearts !    without  reproach  or  blot ; 

Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 

Oh !    if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power!  around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 

And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  his  creed ; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 


ODK   TO    DUTY. 


139 


I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 

No  sport  of   every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself   a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust . 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of   thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires: 

I  feel  the  weight  of   chance  desires  : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  lawgiver !    yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 

Nor  know  we  any  thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 

And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 

Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong. 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through   thee,  are   fresh 
and  strong;. 


&• 


To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I  call  thee :    I  myself   commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  fr'om  this  hour; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 


140  WORDSWORTH. 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of   self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me  live 


THE   ECLIPSE  OF  THE  SUN. 

High  on  her  speculative  tower 
Stood  Science  waiting  for  the  hour 

When  Sol  was  destined  to  endure 
That  darkening  of  his  radiant  face 
Which  Superstition  strove  to  chase, 

Erewhile,   with  rites  impure. 

Afloat  beneath  Italian  skies, 
Through  regions  fair  as  Paradise 

We  gaily  passed, — till  Nature  wrought 
A  silent  and  unlooked-for  change. 
That  checked  the  desultory  range 

Of  joy  and  sprightly  thought.     - 

Where'er  was  dipped  the  toiling  oar. 
The  waves  danced  round  us  as  before 

As  lightly,  though  of  altered  hue, 
'Mid  recent  coolness,  such  as  falls 
At  noontide  from  umbrageous  walls 

That  screen  the  morning  dew. 


THE    ECLIFSE    OF   THE    SUN.  141 

No  vapor  stretched  its  wings  ;    no  cloud 
Cast  far  or  near  a  murky  shroud  ; 

The  sky  an  azure  field  displayed ; 
'Twas  sunlight  sheathed  and  gently  charmed, 
Of  all  its  sparkling  rays  disarmed, 

And  as  in  slumber  laid, — 

Or  something  night  and  day  between, 
Like  moonshine, — but  the  hue  was  green  ; 

Still  moonshine,  without  shadow,  spread 
On  jutting  rock,  and  curved  shore. 
Where  gazed  the  peasant  from  his  door 

And  on  the  mountain's  head. 

It  tinged  the  Juhan  steeps, — it  lay, 
Lugano  !    on  thy  ample  bay  ; 

The  solemnizing  veil  was  drawn 
O'er  villas,  terraces,  and  towers  ; 
To  Alboo-asio's  olive  bowers, 

Porlezza's  verdant  lawn. 

But  Fancy  with  the  speed  of  fire 
Hath  passed  to  Milan's  loftiest  spire, 

And  there  alights  'mid  that  aerial  host 
Of  figures  human  and  divine. 
White  as  the  snows  of  Apennine 

Indurated  by  frost. 

Awe-stricken  she  beholds  the  array 
That  guards  the  Temple  night  and  day; 

Angels  she  sees,  that  might  fi'om  heaven  have  flown. 
And  Virgin-saints,   who  not  in  vain 


142  WORDSWORTH. 

Have  striven  by  purity  to  gain 
The  beatific  crown, — 

Sees  long-drawn  files,  concentric  rings 
Each  narrowing  above  each ; — the  wings, 

The  uplifted  palms,  the  silent  marble  lips, 
The  starry  zone  of   sovereign  height, — 
All  steeped  in  this  portentous  light  I 

All  sufi"ering  dim  eclipse ! 

Thus  after  Man  had  fallen  (if  aught 
These  perishable  spheres  have  wrought 

May  with  that  issue  be  compared), 
Throngs  of  celestial  visages. 
Darkening  like  water  in  the  breeze, 

A  holy  sadness  shared. 

Lo  !    while  I  speak,  the  laboring  Sun 
His  glad  deliverance  has  begun : 

The  cypress  waves  her  sombre  plume 
More  cheerily ;    and  town  and  tower. 
The  vineyard  and  the  olive-bower, 

Their  lustre  reassume ! 

0  Ye,  who  guard  and  grace  my  home 
While  in  far-distant  lands  we  roam. 

What  countenance  hath  this  Day ,  put  on  for  you  ? 
While  we  looked  round  with  favored  eyes, 
Did  sullen  mists  hide  lake  and  skies 

And  mountains  from  your  view? 

Or  was  it  given  you  to  behold 
Like  vision,  pensive  though  not  cold. 


THE   ECLIPSIj;   OF   THE   SUK. 


143 


From  the  smooth  breast  of  gay  Winandermere  ? 
Saw  ye  the  soft  yet  awful  veil 
Spread  over  Grasmere's  lovely  dale, 

Helvellvn's  brow  severe  ? 

I  ask  in  vain, — and  know  far  less 
If  sickness,  sorrow,  or  distress 

Have  spared  my  Dwelling  to  this  hour ; 
Sad  blindness !    but  ordained  to  prove 
Our  faith  in  Heaven's  unfailing  love 

And  all-controlling  power. 


JT9- 


^1:^11^  '    ^^' 


SCOTT. 

THE  BATTLE  OF   FLODDEN. 

Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ricls;e 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  post, 
And  heedful  watched  them  as  they  crossed 

144 


THE    BATTLE    OF    FLODDEN. 

The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridge. 

Hio-Ii  sio-ht  it  is,  and  hau£i;htv,   while 

They  dive  into  the  deep  defile ; 

Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  thoy  fall, 

Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree. 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing ; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing, 
Upon  the  eastei'n  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den. 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen. 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men. 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And,  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch. 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march, 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet-clang, 
Twisel  1    thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang ; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank. 
Saint  Helen !    at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly. 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom. 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now. 
Dark  Flodden  !    on  thy  airy  brow. 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
And .  struggles  through  the  deep  defile  ? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of    the  dames 


146  SCOTT. 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees,  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand, 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead  ? 
What  'vails  the  vain  knight-errant's  brand? 
— Oh,  Douglas,   for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed ! 
Oh  for  one  hour  of   Wallace  wight, 
Or  well-skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight. 
And  cry — ^" Saint  Andrew  and  our  right!" 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  aiorn. 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn. 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannockbourne  ! — 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain. 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain ; 
Wheelino-  their  march,  and  circling  still, 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden  hill. 

Ere  yet  the  bands  met  Marmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace  shouted  loud  and  high, 
"  Hark  !    hark  !    my  lord,  an  English  drum  ! 
And  see  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill, 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon  : — hap  what  hap. 
My  basnet  to  a  prentice  cap. 

Lord  Surrey's  o'er  the  Till  !^ 
Yet  more  !    yet  more  ! — how  fair  arrayed 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by ! 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread, 

And  all  their  armor  flashing  high, 
Saint  George  might  waken  from  the  dead. 


THE  BATTLK  OF  FLODDEN.  147 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly." — 
"Stint  in  thy  prate,"  quoth  Blount,   "tliou'dst  best, 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest."— 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Marmion  said, — 
"This  instant  be  our  band  arrayed; 
The  river  must  be  quickly  crossed, 
That  -we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fight  King  James, — as  well  I  trust. 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must,^ 
The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  fines 
Shall  tarry,  while  the  battle  joins." 

Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw, 
Scarce  to  the  Abbot  bade  adieu; 
Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer, 
To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew. 
And  muttered  as  the  flood  they  view, 
"The  pheasant  in  the  falcon's  claw, 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw  : 
Lord  Angus  may  the  Abbot  awe. 

So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me." 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford,  and  deep, 
"Where  to  the  Tweed  Leat's  eddies  creep. 

He  ventured  desperately  : 
And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide, 
Till  squire  or  groom  before  him  ride ; 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide, 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse, 

Old  Hubert  led  her  rein. 


148  SCOTT. 

Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course, 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  perforce, 

The  southern  bank  they  gain  ; 
Behind  them  straggHng,  came  to  shore, 

As  best  they  might,  the  train  : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew  bow  bore, 

A  caution  not  in  vain ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string. 
By  wet  unharmed,  should  sharply  ring. 
A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  staid, 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  arrayed. 

Then  forward  moved  his  band. 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a  Cross  of  Stone, 
That,  on  a  liillock  standing  lone. 

Did  all  the  field  command. 

Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 

Of   either  host,  for  deadly  fray  ; 

Their  marshalled  lines  stretched  east  and  west. 

And  fronted  north  and  south, 
And  distant  salutation  passed 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth ; 
Not  iu  the  close  successive  rattle. 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle, 

But  slow  and  far  between.- — 
The  hillock  gained,  Lord  Marmion  staid: 
"Here  by  this  Cross,"  he  gently  said, 

"You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare : 
Oh !    think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer ! — 


THE   BATTLE    OF    FLODDEN.  149 

Thou  wilt  not? — well,  no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare. — 
You,  Blount  and  Eu&tace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of   my  train  ; 
Witli  England  if   the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain. — 
But  if  we  conquer,  cruel  'maid, 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid, 

When  here  we  meet  again." 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there, 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 

Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 
From  cither  squire  ;    but  spurred  amain, 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle-plain. 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

-The  good  Lord  Marmion,  by  my  life  I 


Welcome  to  danger's  hour ! — 
Short  greetino;  serves  in  time  of   strife  ; — 

Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power  : 
Myself   will  rule  this  central  host, 

Stout  Stanley  fronts  their  right. 
My  sons  command  the  vaward  post. 

With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight; 

Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light, 

Shall  be  in  rearward  of   the  fight. 
And  succor  those  that  need  it  most. 

Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know, 

AVould  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go ; 
Edmund,  the  Admiral,  Tunstall  there. 
With  thee  their  charge  will  blithely  share 


3S 


150  SCOTT. 

There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too, 
Beneath  De  Burg,  thy  steward  true." — 
"Thanks,  noble  Surrey!"    Marmion  said, 
Nor  further  greeting  there  he  paid; 
But,  parting  like  a  thunderbolt, 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt. 

Where  such  a  shoiit  there  rose 
Of   "Marmion!    Marmion!"    that  the  cry, 
Up  Plodden  mountain  shrilling  high, 

Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill ; 
On  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent) 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent. 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meamng  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view; 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"Unwortliy  ofiice  here  to  stay! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day. — 
But  see !    look  up — on  Flodden  bent, 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent." 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of   the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Volumed  and  fast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war. 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone. 
Announced  their  march;    their  tread  alone. 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown. 


THK    BATTLE    OF    KLOliUEN. 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
Told  England,   from  his  mountain-thvonc 

Kino-  James  did  rushing  con\e. — 
Scarce  could  they  hear,  or  see  their  foes. 
Until  at  weapon-point  they  close,— 
They  close,  in  clouds  of   smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway  and  with  lance's  thrust; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there. 
Of   sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if   men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air; 
Oh,  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 
Recod  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumpli  and  despair. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;    their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast; 
And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 
As  in  tbe  storm  the  white  seamew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave, 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 
But  nought  distinct  they  see: 

Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain; 

Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain; 

Fell  England's  arrow- flight  like  rain; 

Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 


151 


152  SCOTT. 

AVild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of   tiuiiult,  liigh 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly  : 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white, 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight; 

Although  against  them  come, 
Of   gallant  Gordons  many  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Badenoch-man, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntly,  and.  with  Home. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle  ; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside. 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied. 
'Twas  vain  : — But  Fortune,  on  the  right. 
With  fickle  smile,  cheered  Scotland's  fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white. 

The  Howard's  lion  fell ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky ! 
A  Home !    a  Gordon  !    was  the  cry : 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced, — forced  back, — now  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,   shrouds,  and  sail, 


THE    BATTLK    OF    FLODDEN.  153 

It  wavered  'nncl  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear : 
"By  Heaven,  and  all  its  saints!    I  swear 

I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads,  and  patter  prayer, — 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain. 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge, 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large, — 

The  rescued  banner  rose, — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around. 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground. 

It  sank  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too  : — yet  staid. 
As  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread. 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by  ; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast. 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight.   . 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone  : 

Perchance  her  reason  stoops,  or  reels  ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own. 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone. — 


I 


154  SCOTT. 

The  scattered  van  of   England  wheels ; — 
She  onl)^  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared,   "Is  Wilton  there?" — 
They  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair, 
Fight  but  to  die,— "Is  Wilton  there?" 

With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore. 

And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 
A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 

His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand ; 

His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand : 

Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet. 

Do  o 

With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat. 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone. 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  !   .   .   . 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace. 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face, 

Said — "  By  Saint  George,  he's  gone  ! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped. 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head ! 

Good-night  to  Marmion." — 
"Unnurtured  Blount!    thy  brawling  cease: 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace;    "peace!" 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 
Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare : — 
"Where's  Harry  Blount?    Fitz-Eustace  where? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare? 
Redeem  my  pennon, — chai-ge  again  ! 
Cry — 'Marmion  to  the  rescue!' — Vain! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  ! — 


THE    BATTLE   OP    FLODBEN. 


155 


Yet  my  last  thou2;ht  is  England's — fly, 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring : 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. — ■ 

Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie ; 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 
His  lifeblood  stains  the  spotless  shield : 


Edmund  is  down :    my  life  is  reft ; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost. — 


156  SCOTT. 

Must  I  bid  twice? — hence,  varlets !    fly! 

Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die." 

They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay ; 

Glare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmured — "Is  there  none, 

Of   all  my  halls  have  nurst, 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 

To  slake  my  dying  thirst?" 

0,  Woman !    in  our  hours  of  ease, 

Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 

And  variable  as  the  shade 

By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made ; 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 

A  ministering  angel  thou  ! — 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 

When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears. 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn? — behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell, 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond  spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 


TIIK    BATTLE    OK    FLODDEN.  157 

Above,   some  half-worn  letters  say, 
IDvinU.  lurarj).  pilfliim.  tinnlv.  an^.  pi'ag. 
jfov.  Hjc.  Uinti.  soul.  of.  SlJbil-  *RifJi- 
fflfflUjo.  ibuiU.  tJjis.  rross.  auti.  lucU. 

She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  sm-prise  and  joy  espied 

A  Monk  supporting  Marmion's  head; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave — 
"Is  it  the  hand  of   Clare,"  he  said, 
"Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head?" 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose,^ — 
"Speak  not  to  me  of   shrift  or  prayer! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare  ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !" — 

"Alas!"  she  said,   "the  while, — 
Oh,  think  of   your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle." — 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground. 
As  heht  as  if  he  felt  no  wound; 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide. 
In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 
"Then  it  was  truth," — he  said — "I  knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. — 
I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

40 


158  SCOTT. 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day ! 
For  -wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 
And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay ! 
It  may  not  be  ! — this  dizzy  trance — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance. 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk. 
Supported  by  tlie  trembling  Monk. 

With  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound, 

And  strove  to  stanch,  the  gushing  wound : 

The  Monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear. 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear; 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans  of  the  dying/' 

So  the  notes  rung ; — 
"Avoid  thee.   Fiend! — with  cruel  hand. 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand ! — 
Oh,  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine ; 

Oh,  think  on  faith  and  bliss ! — 
By  many  a  deathbed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this." — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail. 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  FLODDEN.  159 

And — Stanley  !    was  the  cry  ; — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 
With  dying  hand,  above  his  head, 
He  shook  the  fragment  of   his  blade. 

And  shouted  "Victory!" 
"Charge,  Chester,  charge!     On,  Stanley,  on!'' 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell. 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell, 
For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  King, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 

Where  Huntly,  and  where  Home?— 
Oh  for  a  blast  of   that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come. 
When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer. 

On  Roncesvalles  died  ! 
Such  blast  might  warn  them,   not  in  vain, 
To  quit  the  plunder  of   the  slain. 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again. 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side. 
Afar,  the  Royal  Standard  flies. 
And  round  it  toils,  and  bleeds,  and  dies, 

Our  Caledonian  pride  ! 
In  vain  the  wish — for  far  away, 
While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way, 
Near  Sybil's  cross  the  plunderers  stray. — 
"0  Lady,"  cried  the  Monk,  "away!" 


160  SCOTT. 

And  placed  lier  on  her  steed, 
And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair, 

Of  Tilmouth  upon  Tweed. 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer, 
And  at  the  dawn  of   morning,  there 
She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 

But  as  they  left  the  dark'ning  heath. 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of   death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed, 
In  headlons;  charsie  their  horse  assailed ; 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep, 

That  fought  around  their  King. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Thouo;h  charsino;  knights  like  whirlwinds  go, 
Though  billmen  ply  the  ghastly  blow. 

Unbroken  was  the  rino-  • 
The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood. 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of   dastard  flight; 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight. 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight, 

As  fearlessly  and  well ; 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  King. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands ; 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew. 
As  mountain-waves,  from  wasted  lands, 


TPIE    BATTLE    01-'    FLODDEN.  161 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know ; 
Their  King,  their  Lords,  their  mightiest,  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field,  as  snow. 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  bloAv, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 

While  many  a  broken  band, 
Disordered,  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale. 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song. 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong : 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife,  and  carnage  drear. 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field, 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear. 

And  broken  was  her  shield. 

Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side:— 
There,  Scotland !    lay  thy  bravest  pride. 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one : 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone. — 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully, 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be ; 
Nor  to  yon  Border  castle  high. 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye ; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain, 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand, 
The  Royal  Pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 

41 


162 


SCOTT. 


He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought; 
Reckless  of  hfe,  he  desperate  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain : 
And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand, 
Firm  clenched  within  liis  manly  hand. 

Beseemed  the  monarch  slain. 
But,  0  !    how  changed  since  yon  blithe  night ! 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight, 

Unto  my  tale  again. 


sS's^gajEiis* 


THE    CYPKESS   "WREATH. 

THE  CYPRESS   WREATH. 

0  LADY,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  tlie  cypress  tree! 
Too  lively  glow  the  lilies  light, 
The  varnished  holly's  all  too  bright; 
The  May-flower  and  the  eglantine 
May  shade  a  brow  less  sad  than  mine; 
But,  lady,  weave  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  weave  it  of  the  cypress  tree ! 

Let  dimpled  Mirth  his  temples  twine 
With  tendrils  of  the  laughing  vine; 
The  manly  oak,  the  pensive  yew, 
To  patriot  and  to  sage  be  due; 
The  myrtle  bough  bids  lovers  live, 
But  that  Matilda  will  not  give  ; 
Then,  lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress  tree ! 

Let  merry  England  proudly  rear 

Her  blended  roses,  bought  so  dear; 

Let  Albin  bind  her  bonnet  blue 

With  heath  and  harebell  dipped  in  dew; 

On  favored  Erin's  crest  be  seen 

The  flower  she  loves  of  emerald  green — 

But,  lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 

Or  twine  it  of  tlie  cypress  tree! 

Strike  the  wild  harp,  while  maids  prepare 
The  ivy  meet  for  minstrel's  hair; 
And,  while  his  crown  of  laurel  leaves 
With  bloody  hand  the  victor  weaves, 


163 


164 


SCOTT. 


Let  tlie  loud  trump  his  triumpli  tell ; 
But  wlien  you  hear  the  passing  bell, 
Then,  lady,  twine  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  twine  it  of  the  cypress  tree. 

Yes !    twine  for  me  the  cypress  bough ; 
But,  oh  Matilda,  twine  not  now  ! 
Stay  till  a  few  brief  months  are  past, 
And  I  have  looked  and  loved  my  last 
When  villagers  my  shroud  bestrew 
With  pansies,  rosemary,  and  rue, — 
Then,  lady,  weave  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  weave  it  of  the  cypress  tree. 


COLERIDGE. 


i*^^i. 


HYMN  BEFORE  SUNEISE  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI, 


Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course?     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  0  sovran  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ;    but  thou,  most  awful  form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 


42 


1G5 


166  COLERIDGE. 

How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above, 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass ;    methinks  thou  piercest  it. 
As  with  a  wedge !    But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine. 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !    I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  ]Dresent  to  the  bodily  sense. 

Didst  vanish  fi-om  my  thought :    entranced  in  prayer, 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody. 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it. 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  mv  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy ; 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,.  transfused. 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there. 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven  1 

Awake,  my  soul !    not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owcst !    not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  1     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale ! 
0  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  cf  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink  1 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald !    wake,  0  wake,  and  utter  praise  1 


HYMN    BEFORE   SUNRISE.  167 

Who  sank  thy  sunless  piHars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 
Forever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing;  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls  !    ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — • 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge! 
Motionless  torrents  !    silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,   with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  ga:4ands  at  your  feet? — 
God  !    let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of   nations. 
Answer !    and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God ! 
God  !    sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of   snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest  I 


168  COLERIDGE. 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm ! 
Ye  lio-htnings,  the  dread  arrows  of   the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of   the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Once  more,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks. 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene, 
Into  the  depth  of   clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !    thou, 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base. 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud. 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  0  ever  rise ; 
Pbise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth  I 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  Hierarch !    tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


LOVK. 


169 


—    ^: 


LOVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
Are  all  but  ministers  of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 


Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 


41! 


170  COLERIDGE. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  arme'd  man, 
The  statue  of  the  arm^d  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lino-ering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of   the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined ;    and  ali ! 
The  deep,  tlic  low,  the  pleading  tone 


LOVE.  171 

With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
-  Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once, 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  laud ; 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasped  his  knees, 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain. 


172  COLERIDGE. 

And  that  slie  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve — 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 
An  undistinguishable  throng ; 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long 


j5  • 


She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame; 
And  like  the  .murmur  of  a  dream 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace, 


LOVE.  173 

And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  ray  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,-  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears ;    and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride  1 


SOUTHEY. 


^ifV*!^*^^™*^ 


SUNDAY   MORNING. 


Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of  Prayer ! 

I  to  the  woodlands  wend,  and  there 
In  lovely  Nature  see  the  God  of  Love. 

The  swelling  organ's  peal 

Wakes  not  my  soul  to  zeal, 
Like  the  sweet  music  of  the  vernal  grove. 
The  gorgeous  altar  and  the  mystic  vest 


174 


STINDAY    MOKNING.  175 

Excite  not  such  devotion  in  my  breast, 

As  where  the  noontide  beam, 

Flashed  from  some  broken  stream. 
Vibrates  on  the  dazzled  sight ; 

Or  where  the  cloud-suspended  rain 

Sweeps  in  shadows  o'er  the  plain ; 
Or  when,  rechning  on  the  cliffs  huge  height, 
I  mark  the  billows  burst  in  silver  light. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of   Prayer ! 

I  to  the  woodlands  shall  repair. 

Peed  with  all  Nature's  charms  mine  eyes, 

And  hear  all  Nature's  melodies. 

The  primrose  bank  will  there  dispense 

Faint  fragrance  to  the  awakened  sense ; 

The  morning  beams  that  life  and  joy  impart, 

Will  with  their  influence  warm  my  heart. 

And  the  full  tear  that  down  my  cheek  will  steal, 

Will  speak  the  prayer  of   praise  I  feel. 

Go  thou  and  seek  the  House  of   Prayer! 
I  to  the  woodlands  bend  my  way, 

And  meet  Pieligion  there  ! 
She  needs  not  haunt  the  high-arched  dome  to  pray, 
Where  storied  windows  dim  the  doubtful  day  ; 
At  liberty  she  loves  to  rove, 

Wide  o'er  the  heathy  hill  or  cowslipped  dale, 
Or  seek  the  shelter  of   the  embowering  grove, 

Or  with  the  streamlet  wind  along  the  vale. 
Sweet  are  these  scenes  to  her;    and  when  the  Night 
Pours  in  the  North  her  silver  streams  of   light. 
She  woos  reflection  in  the  silent  gloom. 
And  ponders  on  the  world  to  come. 


176  SOUTHEY. 


THE   HOLLY-TEEE.' 

0  EEADER !    hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  Holly-Tree? 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 
Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  Atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

Wrinkled  and  keen ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

x\nd  moralize  ; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of   the  Holly-Tree 

Can  emblem  see 
Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  plea'sant  rhyme, 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere. 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 

Reserved  and  rude, 
Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be. 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-Tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youtli  is  apt,   1  know. 
Some  harshness  show, 


THE    DESERT-THIRST.  177 

All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away, 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly-Tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green. 
The  Holly  leaves  a  sober  hue  display. 

Less  bright  than  they ; 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  Holly-Tree  ? 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng ; 
So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 

More  grave  than  they. 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  Holly-Tree. 


THE   DESERT-THIRST. 


Still  o'er  the  wilderness 
Settled  the  moveless  mist. 
The  timid  antelope,  that  heard  their  steps. 
Stood  doubtful  where  to  turn  in  that  dim  light; 
The  ostrich,  blindly  hastening,  met  them  full. 
At  night,  again  in  hope. 
Young  Thalaba  lay  down ; 
The  morning  came,  and  not  one  guiding  ray 
Through  the  thick  mist  was  visible, 
The  same  deep  moveless  mist  that  mantled  all. 


45 


178  SOtlTHEY. 

Oh  for  the  vulture's  scream, 

Who  haunts  for  prey  the  abode  of  huinari-kind 

Oh  for  the  plover's  pleasant  cry, 

To  tell  of   water  near ! 
Oh  for  the  camel-driver's  song ! 
For  now  the  water-skin  grows  light, 
Though  of   the  draught,   more  eagerly  desired, 
Imperious  prudence  took  with  sparing  thirst. 
Oft  from  the  third  night's  broken  sleep. 
As  in  his  dreams  he  heard 
The  sound  of   rushing  winds, 
Started  the  anxious  yoiitli,  and  looked  abroad 
In  vain !    for  still  the  deadly  calm  endured. 
Another  day  passed  on  ; 
The  water-skin  was  drained ! 
But  then  one  hope  arrived, 
For  there  was  motion  in  the  air  ! 
The  sound  of   the  wind  arose  anon. 
That  scattered  the  thick  mist. 
And  lo  !    at  length  the  lovely  face  of  Heaven  ! 

Alas  !    a  wretched  scene 
Was  opened  on  their  view. 
They  looked  around ;    no  wells  were  near, 

No  tent,  no  human  aid  ! 
Flat  on  the  camel  lay  the  water-skin, 
And  their  dumb  servant,  difficultly  now. 
Over  hot  sands  and  undfer  the  hot  sun. 
Dragged  on  with  patient  pain. 

But  oh,  the  joy!    the  blessed  sight; 
When  in  that  burning  waste  the  travellers 


THE    DESERT-TIIIKST. 


179 


Saw  a  green  meadow,  fair  with  flowers  besprent, 
Azure  and  yellow,  like  the  beautiful  fields 
Of   Entrland,  when  amid  the  p-rowing;  crrass 
The  blue-bell  bends,  the  golden  king-cup  shines. 
And  the  sweet  cowslip  scents  the  genial  air, 
In  the  merry  month  of   May  ! 
Oh,  joy  !    the  travellers 
Gaze  on  each  other  with  hope-brighteued  eyes. 

For  sure  throufrh  that  green  meadow  flows 
The  living  stream  !     And  lo  !    their  famished  beast 

Sees  the  restoring  sight ! 
Hope  gives  his  feeble  limbs  a  sudden  strength ; 
He  hurries  on  ! — 


LAMB. 


HESTER. 


WHE:<r  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Tlieir  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavor. 


180 


HESTER.  181 

A  month   or  more  hath  she  been  dead; 
Yet  cannot  I  by  I'orce  be  led 
To  think  upon  tlie  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
Tliat  flushed  her  spirit. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call : — if   'twas  not  pride. 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
Slie  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool. 
But  she  was  trained  in  nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  lieart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore. 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 
Some  summer  morning. 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning? 

46 


182 


LAMB. 


THE   OLD   FAMILIAR  FACES. 


I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of   childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days, 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing. 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  witli  my  bosom  cronies, 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women ! 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


THE    FAMILY    NAME.  183 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  ; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly  ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of   my  childhood. 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seekino-  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;    all  are  departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


THE   FAMILY  NAME. 

What  reason  first  imposed  thee,  gentle  name. 
Name  that  my  father  bore,  and  his  sire's  sire. 
Without  reproach  ?   we  trace  our  stream  no  higher ; 

And  I,  a  childless  man,  may  end  the  same. 
Perchance  some  shepherd  on  Lincolnian  plains. 

In  manners  guileless  as  his  own  sweet  flocks. 

Received  thee  first  amid  the  merry  mocks 
And  arch-allusions  of  his  fellow  swains. 

Perchance  from  Salem's  holier  fields  returned, 
With  glory  gotten  on  the  heads  abhorred 
Of  faithless  Saracens,  some  martial  lord 

Took  His  meek  title,  in  whose  zeal  he.  burned. 
Whate'er  the  fount  whence  thy  beginnings  came, 
No  deed  of   mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  name. 


CAMPBELL. 

THE   BATTLE  OF   THE   BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 


184 


THE    P.ATTLE    01''    THE    BALTIC.  185 

And  her  arras  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. — 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 
While  the  sign  of   battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  : 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime; 

As  they  drifted  on  their  patb, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 
For  a  time. — 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
"Hearts  of  oak!"  our  captain  cried;  when  each  gun, 

From  its  adamantine  lips. 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of   the  sun. 

Again  !    again  !    again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack. 
Till  a  feebler  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; — 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail. 


47 


186 


CAMPBELL. 


As  tlicy  strike  tlie  shattered  sail ; 
Or,  in  conflagration  palo, 


Light  the  gloom. — 


Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave ; 

"Ye  are  brothers!    ye  are  men! 
And  we  conquer  but  to  save : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring: 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King." — 


Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 


THE    BATTLE    OF    THE   BALTIC.  187 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 
As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day, 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise  ! 

For  the  tidings  of   thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze. 

While  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light; 
And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of   them  that  sleep, 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore. 

Brave  hearts  !    to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 
On  the  deck  of   fame  that  died. 

With  the  gallant  good  Ptiou  : 
Soft  sigh  the' winds  of   Heaven  o'er  their  grave, 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

SinsinG:  glorv  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave. 


188 


CAMPBELL. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   DREAM. 

OuK  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw. 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain ; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw. 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 


Mcthought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track : 

'TvA'as  Autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  oi'  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 


THE  soldier's  dkeam.  189 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march  when  my  bosom  was  young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

"Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn!" 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  : — 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in-  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


48 


^?" 


HALLOWED  GKOUND. 

What's  hallowed  ground?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee? 


That's  hallowed  ground — where,  mourned  and  missed, 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed : — 
But  where's  their  memory's  mansion?     Is't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers? 
No !    in  ourselves  their  souls  exist 

A  part  of   ours. 

190 


HALLOWED   GROUND. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 

Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound : 

The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallowed  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  Heaven ! 


191 


For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould ; 

And  will  not  cool, 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 


192  CAMPBELL. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf   may  bloom ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb  : 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind- 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high? — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight? 

A  noble  cause ! 


HALLOWKD    GROUND.  193 

Give  that !    and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums  !    and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space ! 

The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  chargincf  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  jjlace  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  ! — but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal ! 
The  cause  of   Truth  and  human  weal, 

0  God  above ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  aj^peal 

To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love  !    the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine, — 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not — • 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
"And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt, 
That  men  can  bless  one  jiile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chant. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man  ! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan ! 
But  there's  a  dome  of   nobler  span, 
A  temple  given 


194  CAMPBELL. 

Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 
Its  space  is  Heaven  ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself   to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars !    are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Asjject  above? 
Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallowed  ground?     'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of   worth ! — 
Peace !    Independence !    Truth !    go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground. 


HORACE   SMITH, 


HYMN    TO   THE  FLOWEES. 


Day-stars  !    that  ope  your  eyes  witli  man,  to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of   eartli's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  lier  holy  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation. 

196 


196  HORACE    SMITH. 

Ye  matin  worshippers  !    who  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 

Ye  bright  Mosaics  !    tiiat  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  nature's  temple  tessellate 
With  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty. 
Your  forms  create. 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn. 
Which  God  hath  planned : 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 

Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply : 
its  choir  the  winds  and  waves — its  organ  tlmnder — 
its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Through  the  green  aisles,  or  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 

Your  voiceless  lips,  O  flowers!    are  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book, 


HYMN    TO   THE   FLOWERS.  197 

Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles  !    that  in  dewy  splendor 

"  Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without  a  crime," 
Oh,  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender. 
Your  lore  sublime  ! 

"Thou  wert  not,  Solomon!    in  all  thy  glory. 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,   "in  robes  like  ours; 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !    ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers!" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  Artist ! 

With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  deliglitful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers  !  though  made  for  pleasure, 

Blooming  o'er  held  and  wave  by  day  aud  night. 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages  !    what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Posthumous  glories  1    angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth. 

Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 

A  second  birth. 

so 


198  HORACE   SMITH. 

Were  I,  0  God  !    in  churchless  lands  remaining, 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines, 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining. 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines  ! 


ADDRESS  TO   AN   EGYPTIAN   MUMMY. 

And  thou  hast  walked  about — how  strange  a  story  ! — 
In  Thebes's  streets,  three  thousand  years  ago ! 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  .overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous ! 

Speak ! — for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy ; 

Thou  hast  a  tongue, — come,  let  us  hear  its  tune  ! 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground,  mummy, 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, — 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 
But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs,  and  features ! 

Tell  us, — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect, — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame? 

Was  Cheops,  or  Cephrenes,  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name? — 

Is  Pompey's  pillar  really  a  misnomer? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Plomer? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  mason, — and  forbidden. 
By  oath,  to  tell  the  mysteries  of  thy  trade : 


ADDRESS   TO    A   MUMMY.  19S 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  wliich  at  sunrise  played? 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest; — if  so,  my  struggles 
Are  vain, — for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles  !_ 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat. 

Hath  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass, — 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat, — 

Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass, — 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch,  at  the  great  temple's  dedication ! 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Pvoman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled? 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Ptemus  had  been  suckled : — - 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develope,  if   that  withered  tongue 

Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen, 

How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 
And  the  great  delug-e  still  had  left  it  2:reen  ! — 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history's  pages 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages? 

Still  silent ! — Incommunicative  elf ! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  Then  keep  thy  vows  ! 
But,  prithee,  tell  us  something  of   thyself, — • 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  : 
Since  in  the  world  of   spirits  thou  hast  slumbered, 
What  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adventures  numbered? 


200  HOKACE    SJIITII. 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  tliis  box  extended, 

Wc  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations : 

The  Roman  Empire  has  begun  and  ended, — 

JSTew  worlds  have  risen, — we  have  lost  old  nations, — 

And  countless  king;s  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 

While  not  a  frao-ment  of   thv  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head 
AVheu  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb,  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,   Orus,  Apis,  Isis, — 

And  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder. 

When  the  o-igantic  Mcmnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If   the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed. 

The  nature  of   thy  private  life  unfold  ! 
A  heart  hath  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled : 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face  ? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race? 

Statue  of  flesh  ! — Immortal  of-  the.  dead  ! 

Imperishable  tj'pe  of  evanescence  1 
Posthumous  man, — who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed. 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence  ! 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning ! 

Wliy  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying' guest  be  lost  forever? 
Oh  !    let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure, 

In  living  virtue, — that  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom ! 


?L/ 


It  0  or^^ 


MOORE. 


I  SAW  FKOM   THE  BEACH. 


I  SAW  from  the  beach,   when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on  ; 

I  came  when  the  snn  o'er  that  beach  was  declining, 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 


51 


201 


202  MOOEE. 

I 

Aud  such  is  the  fate  of   our  hfe's  early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known ; 

Each  wave  that  we  danced  on  at  morning  ebbs  from  us. 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 

Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the   calm   eve  of   our   night  ;— 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  Morn- 
ing 
Her   clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth   Evening's   best 
light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning, 
When    passion    first    waked   a    new    life    through    his 
frame. 
And  his  soul,  like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in  burn- 
in"' 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame? 


WERE  NOT  THE  SINFUL  MARY'S  TEARS. 

Were  not  the  sinful  Mary's  tears 
An  offering  worthy  Heaven, 

When  o'er  the  faults  of  former  yeara 
She  wept — and  was  forgiven? 


WERE    NOT    THE    SINFUL    MARY's   TEARS.  203 


When,  bringing  every  balmy  sweet 
Her  day  of   luxury  stored, 

She  o'er  her  Saviour's  hallowed  feet 
The  precious  odors  poured; — 


And  wiped  them  with  that  golden  hair, 
Where  once  the  diamond  shone  ; 

Though  now  those  gems  of   grief  were  there 
Which  shine  for  GOD  calone ! 


204  MOORE. 

Were  not  those  sweets,  so  humbly  shed- 
That  hair — those  weeping  eyes — 

And  the  sunk  heart,  that  inly  bled — 
Heaven's  noblest  sacrifice  ? 

Thou  that  hast  slept  in  error's  sleep, 
Oh,  would'st  thou  wake  in  Heaven, 

Like  Mary  kneel,  like  Mary  weep, 
"Love  much,"  and  be  forgiven! 


OH!    HAD   WE   SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE  ISLE  OF 
OUR  OWN. 

Oh  !    had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own. 

In  a  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone. 

Where  a  leaf   never  dies  in  the  still  blooming  bowers. 

And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flowers; 

Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 
With  so  fond  a  delay, 

That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  day  ; 
Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live, 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give : 

There,  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  clime. 
We  should  love,  as  they  loved  in  the  first  golden  time  ; 
The  glow  of   the  sunshine,  the  balm  of   the  aii-, 
W(juld  steal  to  our  hearthi,  and  make  all  summer  there. 


DRINK   TO    HER. 


205 


With  affection  as  free 

Prom  decline  as  the  bowers, 
And,  with  hope,  hke  tlie  bee, 
Living  always  on  flowers. 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  hght, 
And  our  death  come  on  holy  and  calm  as  the  night. 


^r^ 


DKINK   TO   HER. 


Drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 

The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy. 

Oh  !    woman's  heart  was  made 
For  minstrel  hands  alone ; 


206  MOORE. 

By  other  fingers  played, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 

Then  here's  to  her  who  long 
Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 

The  girl  who  gave  to  song 
What  gold  could  never  buy. 

At  Beauty's  door  of  glass 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood, 
They  asked  her,  "Which  might  pass?" 

She  answered,   "He  who  could." 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 

To  pass — but  'twould  not  do: 
While  Wit  a  diamond  brought. 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through. 
So  here's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh. 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

Where  wealth  or  grandeur  shines 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold  mines. 
But,  oh  !    the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere ; 
Its  native  home's  above. 

Though  woman  keeps  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 


MONTGOMERY. 


RECLUSE. 


A  FOUNTAIN  issuing  into  ligtit 
Before  a  marble  palace,  threw 

To  heaven  its  column,  pure  and  bright, 
Returnino;  thence  in  showers  of   clew  ; 

But  soon  a  humbler  course  it  took, 

And  glid  away  a  nameless  brook. 


20" 


208  MONTGOMERY. 

Flowers  on  its  grassy  margin  sprang, 
Flies  o'er  its  eddying  surface  played, 

Birds  midst  the  alder-branches  sang. 

Flocks  through  the  verdant  meadows  strayed; 

The  weary  there  lay  down  to  rest, 

And  there  the  halcyon  built  her  nest. 

'Twas  beautiful,  to  stand  and  watch 
The  fountain's  crystal  turn  to  gems, 

And  from  the  sky  such  colors  catch, 
As  if  'twere  raining  diadems ; 

Yet  all  was  cold  and  curious  art, 

That  charmed  the  eye,  but  missed  the  heart. 

Dearer  to  me  the  little  stream, 
Whose  unimprisoned  waters  run. 

Wild  as  the  changes  of  a  dream, 

Bv  rock  and  glen,  through  shade  and  sun : 

Its  lovely  links  had  power  to  bind 

In  welcome  chains  my  wandering  mind. 

So  thought  I,   when  I  saw  the  face. 

By  happy  portraiture  revealed. 
Of   one,  adorned  with  every  grace, 

— Her  name  and  date  from  me  concealed, 
But  not  her  story ; — she  had  been 
The  pride  of  many  a  splendid  scene. 

She  cast  her  glory  round  a  court. 
And  frolicked  in  the  gayest  ring. 

Where  fashion's  high-born  minions  sport, 
Like  sparkling  fire-flies  on  the  wing; 


THE    FIELD    OF   THE   WOKLD.  209 

But  thence,  when  love  had  touched  her  soul, 
To  nature  and  to  truth  she  stole. 

From  din,  and  pageantry,  and  strife, 

'Midst  woods  and  mountains,   vales  and  plains, 

She  treads  the  paths  of  lowly  life. 
Yet  in  a  bosom-circle  reigns, 

No  fountain — scattering  diamond  showers, 

But  the  sweet  streamlet — watering  flowers. 


THE  FIELD   OF  THE   WORLD. 

Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed. 
At  eve  hold  not  thine  hand ; 

To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed, 
Broadcast  it  o'er  the  land. 

Beside  all  waters  sow. 

The  highway  furrows  stock, 
Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow, 

Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  good,  the  fruitful  o-round, 

Expect  not  here  nor  there  ; 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  by  plots,   'tis  found; 

Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

53 


210  MONTGOMERY. 

Thou  know'st  not  wliicla  may  thrive, 

The  late  or  early  sown : 
Grace  keeps  the  precious  germs  alive, 

When  and  wherever  strown. 

And  duly  shall  appear. 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength. 

The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear. 
And  the  full  corn  at  length. 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain ; 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain, 

For  garners  in  the  sky. 

Thence,  when  the  glorious  end, 
The  day  of  God  is  come, 

The  angel-reapers  shall  descend. 

And  Heaven  cry,  "  Harvest  home." 


/^^^^     M-.^^^^-^ 


HEBER 

THE   HUNTING-PAETY. 

And  forth  lie  fared;    while  from  her  turret  high 
That  sraihng  form  beheld  his  hunter  crew; 

Pleased  she  beheld,   whose  unacquainted  eye 
Pound  in  each  varying  scene  a  pleasure  new. 

211 


212 


HEBER. 


Nor  yet  had  pomp  fatigued  her  sated  view, 
Nor  custom  palled  the  gloss  of  royalty. 

Like  some  gay  child,  a  simple  bliss  she  drew 
From  every  gaud  of   feudal  pageantry, 
A.nd  every  broidered  garb  that  swept  in  order  by. 


i:.£i^^m&i^-'^l^k> 


^^^•■' 


And,  sooth,  it  was  a  brave  and  antic  sight. 

Where  plume,  and  crest,  and  tassel  wildly  blending. 

And  bended  bow,  and  javelin  flashing  bright, 

Marked  the  gay  squadron  through  the  copse  descending; 


T?IK    HUNTING-PARTY.  213 

The  greyhound,  with  his  silken  leash  contending, 
Wreathed  the  lithe  neck ;    and  on  the  falconer's  liand. 

With  restless  perch  and  pinions  broad  depending. 
Each  hooded  goshawk  kept  her  eager  stand, 
And  to  the  courser's  tramp  loud  rang  the  hollow  land. 

And  over  all,  in  accents  sadly  sweet, 

The  mellow  bugle  poured  its  plaintive  tone, 

That  echo  joyed  such  numbers  to  repeat. 

Who,  from  dark  glade  or  rock  of  pumice-stone, 
Sent  to  the  woodland  nymphs  a  softer  moan  ; 

While  listeniner  far  from  forth  some  fallow  brown, 
The  swinked  ploughman  left  his  work  undone; 

And  the  glad  schoolboy  from  the  neighboring  town 

Sprang  o'er  each  prisoning  rail,   nor  recked   his   master's 
frown. 

..  Her  warm  cheek  pillowed  on  her  ivory  hand, 
Her  long  hair  waving  o'er  the  battlement. 

In  silent  thought  Ganora  kept  her  stand. 
Though  feebly  now  the  distant  bugle  sent 
Its  fading  sound ;    and,  on  the  brown  hill's  bent, 

Nor  horse,  nor  hound,  nor  hunter's  pomp  was  seen. 
Yet  still  she  gazed  on  empty  space  intent, 

As  one  who,  spell-bound,  on  some  haunted  green 

Beholds  a  faery  show,  the  twilight  elms  between. 


54 


214  HEBER. 


SONG. 


Why  that  neck  of  marble  wliiteness, 
Why  that  hair  of   sunny  brightness, 

Form  of   perfect  mould ; 
Why  those  fringed  eyelids  screening 
Lights  of  love  and  liquid  meaning, 

While  the  heart  is  cold? 

Shame  on  her  whose  pride  or  malice 
With  a  lover's  anguish  dallies ! 
Scorn  our  scattered  reason  rallies, 
Thou  shalt  mourn  thy  tyrant  sallies, 
Ere  that  thou  art  old — young  Alice, 
Ere  that  thou  art  old  ! 


I   SEE   THEM    ON   THEIR   WINDING  WAY. 

I  SEE  them  on  their  winding  way, 
Above  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play, 
And  nearer  yet,  and  yet  more  near. 
The  martial  chorus  strikes  the  ear. 

They're  lost  and  gone, — the  moon  is  past, 
The  wood's  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  cast. 
And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still, 
The  dim  march  warbles  up  tlie  hill. 


I    SEE    THEM    ON    THEIR    WINDING    WAY. 

Again,  again, — the  pealing  drum. 

The  clashing  horn — they  come  !    they  come  ! 

And  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high, 

Blend  with  their  notes  of  victory. 


215 


ifc.  ,t><vv.j,. 


Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way, 
The  trampling  hoof  brooks  no  delay  ; 
The  thrilling  fife,  the  pealing  drum. 
How  late— but,  oh,  how  loved  they  come! 


GKAHAME. 


'^^ 


THE   SABBATH. 


How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 
The  ploughboy's  whistle  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 


216 


THE    SABBATH.  217 

Of   tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yester-morn  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze. 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear — the  hum 
Of   early  bee,  the  trickling  of   the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  seems  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas. 
The  blackbird's  note  conies  mellower  from  the  dale ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song ;    the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-sunk  glen ; 
While  from  yon  lowly  roof,   whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  intervals 
The  voice  of   psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 

With  dove-like  wings  Peace  o'er  yon  village   broods  : 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests ;    the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased ;    all,   all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 
Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  fi-ee, 
Unheedful  of   the  pasture,   roams  at  large  ; 
And,  as  his  stiff,  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls. 
His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

But  chiefly  man  the  day  of   rest  enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbath  !    thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day. 
On  other  days,  the  man  of   toil  is  doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,   lonely,  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from  the  winter's  cold 
And  summer's  heat  by  neighboring  hedge  or  tree ; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home, 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves; 
With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy        . 


218 


GKAHAME. 


Of   giving  thanks  to  God — not  thanks  of   form, 
A  word  and  a  grimace — but  reverently, 
With  covered  face  and  upward,  earnest  eye. 


«^*^^K***^>  I  ' 


Hail,  Sabbath  !    thee  I  liail,   iho  poor  man's  day : 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air  pure  from  the  city's  smoke; 
While  wandering  slowly  up  the  river-side, 
He  meditates  on   Him  wliosc  power  ho  marks 


THE    SABBATH.  219 

In  each  green   tree  that  proudly  spreads  tlic  bough, 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  the  roots  ;    and  while  he  thus  surveys 
With  elevated  joy  each  rural  charm, 
He  hopes  (yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope) 
To  reach  those  realms  where  Sabbath  never  ends. 

But  now  his  steps  a  welcome  sound  recalls : 
Solemn  the  knell,  from  yonder  ancient  pile, 
Fills  all  the  air,  inspiring  joyful  av/e  : 
Slowly  the  throng  moves  o'er  the  tomb-paved  ground  ; 
The  aged  man,   the  bowe'd  down,  the  blind, 
Led  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  who  breathes 
With  pain,  and  eyes  the  new-made  grave,  well-pleased ; 
These,  mingled  with  the  young,  the  gay,  approach 
The  house  of   God — these,   spite  of  all  their  ills, 
A  glow  of  gladness  feel  ;    with  silent  praise 
They  enter  in  ;    a  placid  stillness  reigns. 
Until  the  man  of   God,  worthy  the  name, 
Opens  the  book,  and  reverentially 
The  stated  portion  reads.     A  pause  ensues. 
The  organ  breathes  its  distant  thunder-notes. 
Then  swells  into  a  diapason  full : 
The  peo})le  rising  sing,   ''with  harp,  with  harp, 
And  voice  of  psalms:"  harmoniously  attuned 
The  various  voices  blend  ;    the  long-drawn  aisles. 
At  every  close,  the  lingering  strain  prolong. 
And  now  the  tubes  a  softened    stop    controls ; 
In  softer  harmony  the  people  join, 
While  liquid  whispers  from  yon  orphan  band 
Recall  the  soul  from  adoration's  trance. 
And  fill  the  eye  with  pity's  gentle  tears. 
Again  the  organ-peal,  loud,  rolling,  meets 


220 


GRAHAM  !•;. 


The  hallelujahs  of  the  choir.     Sublime 
A  thousand  notes  symphoniously  ascend, 
As  if   the  whole  were  one,  suspended  high 
In  air,  soarinsr  heavenward  :    afar  thev  float, 
Wafting  glad  tidino-s  to  the  sick  man's  couch  : 
Raised  on  his  arm,  he  lists  the  cadence  close, 
Yet  thinks  he  hears  it  still ;    his  heart  is  cheered ; 
He  smiles  on  death ;    but,  ah  !    a  wish  will  rise — 
"Would  I  were  now  beneath  that  echoing  roof! 
No  lukewarm  accents  from  mj  lips  should  flow  ; 
My  heart  would  sing ;    and  many  a  Sabbath-day 
My  steps  should  thither  turn  ;    or,   wandering  far 
In  solitary  paths,  where  wild  flowers  blow. 
There  would  I  bless  His  name  who  led  me  forth 
From  death's  dark  vale,  to  walk  amid  those  sweets- 


THE   SABBATH.  221 

Who  gives  the  bloom  of   health  once  more  to  glow 
Upon  this  cheek,  and  lights  this  languid  eye." 

It  is  not  only  in  the  sacred  fane 
That  homage  should  be  paid  to  the  Most  High  : 
There  is  a  temple,  one  not  made  with  hands, — 
The  vaulted  firmament.     Far  in  the  woods, 
Almost  beyond  the  sound  of   city  chime, 
At  intervals  heard  through  the  breezeless  air ; 
When  not  the  limberest  leaf  is  seen  to  move, 
Save  where  the  linnet  lights  upon  the  spray ; 
Where  not  a  flow'ret  bends  its  little  stalk, 
Save  when  the  bee  alights  upon  the  bloom — 
There,  rapt  in  gratitude,   in  joy,  and  love, 
The  man  of   God  will  pass  the  Sabbath  noon  ; 
Silence  his  praise  :    his  disembodied  thoughts. 
Loosed  from  the  load  of   words,   will  high  ascend 
Beyond  the  empyreal. 

Nor  yet  less  pleasing  at  the  heavenly  throne, 
The  Sabbath  service  of  the  shepherd  boy ! 
In  some  lone  glen,  where  every  sound  is  lulled 
To  slumber,  save  the  tinkling  of   the  rill, 
Or  bleat  of   lamb,  or  hovering  falcon's  cry. 
Stretched  on  tlie  sward,   he  reads  of  Jesse's  son  ; 
Or  sheds  a  tear  o'er  him  to  Egypt  sold. 
And  wonders  why  he  weeps  :    the  volume  closed. 
With  thyme-sprig  laid  between  the  leaves,  be  sings 
The  sacred  lays,  his  weekly  lesson  conned 
With  raeikle  care  beneath  the  lowly  roof. 
Where  humble  lore  is  learnt,  where  humble  worth 
Pines  unrewarded  by  a  thankless  state. 
Thus  readinp',  hvmnino-,  all  alone,   unseen, 
The  shepherd-boy  the  Sabbath  holy  keeps, 

;>G 


222  GRAHAME. 

Till  on  the  heights  he  marks  the  straggling  bands 

Returning  homeward  from  the  house  of   prayer. 

In  peace  they  home  resort.     Oh,  blissful  days  1 

When  all  men  worship  God  as  conscience  wills. 

Far  other  times  our  fathers'  grandsires  knew, 

A  virtuous  race  to  godliness  devote, 

What  though  the  sceptic's  scorn  hath  dared  to  soil 

The  record  of  their  fame  !     What  though  the  men 

Of   worldly  minds  have  dared  to  stigmatize 

The  sister-cause,  R,eligion  and  the  Law, 

With  Superstition's  name  ! — yet,  yet  their  deeds. 

Their  constancy  in  torture  and  in  death — 

These  on  tradition's  tongue  still  live,  these  shall 

On  history's  honest  page  be  pictured  bright 

To  latest  times.     Perhaps  some  bard,  whose  muse 

Disdains  the  servile  strain  of   fashion's  choir. 

May  celebrate  their  unambitious  names. 

With  them  each  day  was  holy,  every  hour 

They  stood  jDrepared  to  die,  a  people  doomed 

To  death — old  men,  and  youths,  and  simple  maids. 

With  them  each  day  was  holy  ;    but  that  morn 

On  which  the  angel  said,  "See  where  the  Lord 

Was  laid,"  joyous  arose — to  die  that  day 

Was  bliss.     Long  ere  the  dawn,  by  devious  ways, 

O'er  hills,  through  woods,  o'er  dreary  wastes,  they  sought 

The  upland  moors,  where  rivers,  there  but  brooks. 

Dispart  to  different  seas.     Fast  by  such  brooks 

A  little  glen  is  sometimes  scooped,  a  plat 

With  greensward  gay,  and  flowers  that  strangers  seem 

Amid  the  heathery  wild,  that  all  around 

Fatigues  the  eye  :    in  solitudes  like  these 

Thy  persecuted  children,  Scotia,  foiled 


THE   SABBATH.  223 

A  tyrant's  and  a  bigot's  bloody  laws  ; 

There,  leaning  on  his  spear  (one  of   the  array 

That  in  the  times  of   old  had  scathed  the  rose 

On  England's  banner,  and  had  powerless  struck 

The  infatuate  monarch  and  his  wavering  host. 

Yet  ranged  itself  to  aid  his  son  dethroned), 

The  lyart  veteran  lieard  the  word  of   God 

By  Cameron  thundered,  or  by  E,enwick  poured 

In  gentle  stream  :    then  rose  the  song,  the  loud 

Acclaim  of   praise  ;    the  wheeling  plover  ceased 

Her  plaint ;    the  sohtary  place  was  glad. 

And  on  the  distant  cairns,  the  watcher's  ear 

Caught  doubtfully  at  times  the  breeze-borne  note. 

But  years  more  gloomy  followed,  and  no  more 

The  assembled  people  dared,  in  face  of   day. 

To  worship  God,  or  even  at  the  dead 

Of  night,  save  wlien  the  wintry  storm  raved  fierce 

And  thunder-peals  compelled  the  men  of  blood 

To  couch  within  their  dens  ;    then  dauntlessly 

The  scattered  few  would  meet,  in  some  deep  dell 

By  rocks  o'er-canopied,  to  hear  the  voice, 

Their  faithful  pastor's  voice  :    he  by  the  gleam 

Of  sheeted  lightning  oped  the  sacred  book. 

And  words  of   comfort  spake  :    over  their  souls 

His  accents  soothing  came — -as  to  her  young 

The  heath-fowl's  plumes,  when  at  the  close  of   eve 

She  gathers  in  her  mournful  brood  dispersed 

By  murderous  sport,  and  o'er  the  remnant  spreads 

Fondly  her  wings ;   close  nestling  'neath  her  breast 

They  cherished  cower  amid  the  purple  blooms. 


c/^e^^^y  4^;^   ^^T^^A.^ 


KIRKE   WHITE. 


THE    STAR  OF   BETHLEHEM. 

When,  marslmllcd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestucl  the  sky, 

One  star  alone,  of   all  the  train, 
("an  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

221 


THE    STAR   OK    BETHLEHEM.  225 

Hark !    bark !    to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 

From  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 
But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks. 

It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  was  dark ; 
The  ocean  yawned — and  rudely  blowed 

The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering  bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, — 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 
And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall, 

It  led  me  to  the  port  of   peace. 

Now  safely  moored — my  perils  o'er, 

I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem. 
Forever  and  for  evermore. 

The  Star— the  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 


57 


226  KIRKE    WHITE. 


PEEMONITION   OF  DEATH. 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme, 

With  self-rewarding  toil ;    thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 

The  lyre  which  I  in  early  days  have  strung; 

And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour. 

On  the  dark  cypress  ;    and  the  strings  which  rung 
With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard  no 
more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again? 

Shall  I  no  more  reanimate  the  lay  ? 
Oh !    Thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day; 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree ! 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee. 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am  free. 


BYRON. 


VENICE. 


1  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of   Sighs  ; 

A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 

As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand: 

A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 

O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 

227 


228  BYRON. 

Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles  ! 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 

Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 

A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers : 
And  such  she  was ; — her  daughters  had  their  dowers 

From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 

In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of   her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deemed  their  dignity  increased. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more. 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 

Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear  : 
Those  days  are  gone — but  Beauty  still  is  here. 

States  fall,  arts  fade — but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 

Tlie  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 

Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 

Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanished  sway ; 

Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decaj 
With  the  Rialto;    Shylock  and  the  Mcor, 

And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !    though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


VKNICE. 


229 


The  beings  of  the  iuind  arc  not  of   clay  ; 

Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 

And  more  beloved  existence  :    that  whicli  Fate 

Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of   mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied. 

First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate  ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 

Such  is  the  refuge  of   our  youth  and  age, 

The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy; 

And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page. 

And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye : 
Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 

Outshines  our  fairy-land  ;    in  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  fantastic  sky. 

And  the  strange  constellations  which  the  Muse 
O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse  ; 

I  saw  or  dreamed  of   such, — but  let  them  go, — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappeared  like  dreams; 

_^n(J — whatsoe'er  they  were — are  now  but  so  : 
I  could  replace  them  if   I  would;    still  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 

Such  as  I  sought  for,  and  at  moments  found; 
Let  these  too  go — for  waking  Reason  deems 

Such  overweening  phantasies  unsound. 
And  other  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround. 

I've  taught  me  other  tongues,  and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger:    to  the  mind 


230  BYRON. 

Which  is  itself,  do  changes  bring  surprise ; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,   nor  hard  to  find, 
A  country  with — ay,  or  without — mankind  ; 

Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be, — 
Not  without  cause ;    and  should  I  leave  behind 

The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free, 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea, 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well ;    and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine. 

My  spirit  shall  I'esume  it — if   we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.     I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remembered  in  my  line 

With  my  land's  language  :    if   too  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline, — 

If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are. 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honored  by  the  nations, — let  it  be — 

And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head  ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me — 
"Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  he." 

Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need ; 

The  thorns  which  I  have  reaped  are  of   the  tree 

I  planted;    they  have  torn  me,  and  I  bleed: 
[  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from  sucl 
a  seed. 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord ; 

And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renewed, 


VENICE. 


231 


The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood ! 
St.  Mai'k  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 


Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  withered  power, 

Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalled  dower. 


232  BYKON. 

The  Suabian  sued,  aud  now  the  Austrian  reigns — 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 

Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities  ;    nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 

The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 

Like  lauwine  loosened  from  the  mountain's  belt; 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo ! 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun ; 

But  is  not  Doria's,  menace  come  to  pass? 

Are  they  not  bridled? — Venice,  lost  and  won. 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of   fi'eedom  done. 

Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose ! 

Better  be  whelmed  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun. 

Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose: 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory, — a  new  Tyre ; 

Her  very  byword  sprung  from  victory. 
The  "Planter  of  t'he  Lion,"  which  through  fire 

And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 

Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free. 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite ; 

Witness  Troy's  rival,  Oandia !     Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight ! 
For  yc  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 

Statues  of   glass — all  shivered — the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ; 


VENICE.  233 

But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust ; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 

Have  yielded  to  the  stranger :    empty  halls, 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 

Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals. 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 

And  fettered  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of   war, 

Redemption  rose  up  in  tlie  Attic  Muse, 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar  : 
See  !    as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 

Of   the  o'ermastered  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands,  his  idle  scimitar 

Starts  from  its  belt — he  rends  his  captive's  chains. 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his  strains. 

Thus,  Venice,  if   no  stronger  claim  were  thine. 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 

Thy  choral  memory  of   the  Bard  divine, 

Thy  love  of   Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants  ;    and  thy  lot 

Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of   all, 

Alhion !    to  thee :    the  Ocean  queen  should  not 

Abandon  Ocean's  children ;    in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood  ;    she  to  me 

Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea. 

Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of   wealth  the  mart; 

59 


234  BYKON. 

And  Otway,  RadclifFe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art, 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 

Although  I  found  her  thus,   we  did  not  part ; 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of   woe 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 


EVENING   TWILIGHT. 


But  ever  and  anon  of  griefs  subdued 

There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting, 

Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued ; 

And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 

Aside  forever :    it  may  be  a  sound — 

A  tone  of  music — summer's  eve — or  spring — 

A  flower — the  wind — ^the  ocean — which  shall  wound. 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound ; 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,   nor  can  trace 
Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of   the  mind. 

But  feel  the  shock  renewed,  nor  can  efface 

The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behind, 
Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesigned, 

When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind — 

The  cold,  the  changed,  perchance  the  dead — anew, 
The  mourned,  the  loved,  the  lost — too  many! — yet  how 
few  I 


EVENING    TWILIGHT.  235 

But  my  soul  wanders ;    I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 

A  ruin  amidst  ruins ;    tiiere  to  track 

Fallen  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 

And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 

The  master-mould  of   Nature's  heavenly  hand ; 

Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free, 
The  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  I'ords  of   earth  and  sea, 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of   Rome  ! 

And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 

Of   all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  decree  ; 

Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 

More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertilitv ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  cannot  be  defaced. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night ; 

Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her ;    a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 

Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains ;    heaven  is  free 

From  clouds,   but  of   all  colors  seems  to  be, — 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, — ■ 

Where  the  Daj-  joins  the  past  Eternity  ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air, — an  island  of   the  blest  1 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 

With  her  o'er  half   the  lovelv  heaven  ;    but  still 


236 


BYEON. 


Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Rolled  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhfetian  hill, 
As  Day  and  Night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaimed  her  order :    gently  flows 

The  deep-dyed  Brenta, — where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose. 
Which  streams   upon   her  stream,  and  glassed  within  it 
glows, — 


Filled  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar. 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ;    all  its  hues, 


EVENING   TWILIGHT.  237 

From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 

Their  magical  variety  diffuse  : 

And  now  they  change  ;    a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains  ;    parting  day 

Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till — 'tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua ; — reared  in  air, 

Pillared  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover :    here  repair 

Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 

The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 

Prom  the  dull  yoke  of   her  barbaric  foes  ; 

Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 

With  his  melodious  tears,  he  a;ave  himself   to  fame. 


&" 


They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died ; 

The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years  ;   and  'tis  their  pride- 

An  honest  pride — and  let  it  be  their  praise, 

To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre ;    both  plain 

And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  formed  his  monumental  fane. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 

Por  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 

And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decayed 


238  BYRON. 

In  tlie  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 

Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  displayed, 
For  they  can  lure  no  further ;    and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers. 

And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-bv. 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 

With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 

Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality.  • 
If   from  society  we  learn  to  live, 

'Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die  ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers ;    vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid ;    alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive  : 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair 

The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 

In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 

Of   moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day. 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay. 

Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away, 

Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb, 
The  tomb  a  heU.  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 


MRS.   SOUTHEY. 


THE   PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED, 


Teead  softly — bow  the  head- 
In  reverent  silence  bow — 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll — 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 


239 


240  MES.  SOUTHEY. 


Stranger !    however  great, 


With  lowly  reverence  bow ; 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed — 
One  b}^  that  paltry  bed — 

Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo !    Death  does  keep  his  state ; 

Enter — no  crowds  attend — 

Enter — no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread ; 
One  silent  woman  stands, 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound — 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 
A  sob  suppressed — again 
That  short,  deep  gasp,  and  then 

The  parting  groan. 

0  change  ! — 0  wondrous  change  !— 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars — 

This  moment  there,  so  low; 

So  agonized,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars ! 


THE    mariner's    HYMN.  243 

0  change  ! — stupendous  change  ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod ; 
Thi-  Bun  eternal  breaks — 
The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 


THE    MARINEK'S   HYMN. 

Laxtnch  thy  bark,  mariner  i 

Christian,  God  speed  thee ! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands — 

Good  angels  lead  thee ! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily, 

Christian,  steer  home  ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  there  ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast! 
So — let  the  vessel  wear — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"What  of  the  night,  watchman? 

What  of   the  night?" 
"Cloudy — all  quiet — 

No  land  yet — -all's  right." 


242  MRS.  SOUTH EY. 

Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seeineth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How !    gains  the  leak  so  fast  ? 

Clear  out  the  hold — 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; — 
There — let  the  ingots  go — 

Now  the  ship  rights ; 
Hurra !    the  harbor's  near — 

Lo,  the  red  lights  ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land  ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam — 
Christian  !    cast  anchor  now — • 

Heaven  is  thy  home ! 


KEBLE. 


MORNING. 


Hues  of   the  rich  unfolding  morn, 
That,  ere  the  glorious  sun  be  born, 
By  some  soft  touch  invisible 
Around  his  path  are  taught  to  swell  ; — 


243 


244  KEBLE. 

Thou  rustling  breeze  so  fresh  and  gay 
That  dancest  forth  at  0]3ening  day, 
And,  brushing  by  with  joyous  wing, 
Wakenest  each  Httle  leaf   to  sing ; — 

Ye  fragrant  clouds  of   dewy  steam 
By  which  deep  grove  and  tangled  stream 
Pay,  for  soft  rains  in  season  given, 
Their  tribute  to  the  genial  heaven ; — 

Why  waste  your  treasures  of  delight 
Upon  our  thankless,  joyless  sight; 
Who  day  by  day  to  sin  awake, 
Seldom  of  Heaven  and  you  partake ! 

Oh !    timely  happy,  timely  wise, 
Hearts  that  with  rising  morn  arise ! 
Eyes  that  the  beam  celestial  view 
Which  evermore  makes  all  things  new ! 


o 


New  every  morning  is  the  love 
Our  wakening  and  uprising  prove ; 
Through  sleep  and  darkness  safely  brought, 
Restored  to  life,  and  power,  and  thought. 

New  mercies,  each  returning  day. 

Hover  around  us  while  we  pray ; 

New  perils  past,  new  sins  forgiven, 

New  thoughts  of  God,  new  hopes  of  Heaven. 

If  on  our  daily  course  our  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  find, 


MORNING.    '  245 

New  treasures  still,  of   countless  price, 
God  will  provide  lor  sacrifice.      ' 

Old  friends,   old  scenes,  will  lovelier  be 
As  more  of   Heaven  in  each  we  see  : 
Some  softening  gleam  of   love  and  prayer 
Sliall  dawn  on  every  cross  and  care. 

As  for  some  dear  familiar  strain 
Untired  we  ask,  and  ask  again. 
Ever  in  its  melodious  store 
Finding  a  spell  unheard  before  ; 

Such  is  the  bliss  of  souls  serene, 

When  they  have  sworn,  and  steadfast  mean, 

Counting  the  cost,  in  all  to  espy 

Their  God,  in  all  themselves  deny. 

0  could  we  learn  that  sacrifice. 
What  lights  would  all  around  us  rise  ! 
How  would  our  hearts  with  wisdom  talk 
Along  life's  dullest,  dreariest  walk  ! 

We  need  not  bid,  for  cloistered  cell. 
Our  neighbor  and  our  work  farewell, 
Nor  strive  to  wind  ourselves  too  high 
For  sinful  man  beneath  the  sky  ; 

The  trivial  round,   the  common  task, 
Would  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask; 
Room  to  deny  ourselves ;    a  road 
To  bring  us,  -daily,  nearer  God. 


246  KEBLE. 

Seek  we  no  more ;    content  with  these. 
Let  prese'nt  Rapture,  Comfort,  Ease, 
As  Heaven  shall  bid  them,  come  and  go ; 
The  secret  this  of  Rest  below. 

Only,  0  Lord,  in  Thy  dear  love 
Fit  us  for  perfect  Rest  above ; 
And  help  us,  this  and  every  day, 
To  live  more  nearly  as  we  pray. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 


What  sudden  blaze  of  song 

Spreads  o'er  th'  expanse  of  Heaven? 
Li  waves  of   light  it  thrills  along, 
Th'  angelic  signal  given — 
■'Glory  to  God!"  fi'om  yonder  central  fire 
Flows  out  the  echoing  lay  beyond  the  starry  choir; 

Like  circles  widening  round 

Upon  a  clear  blue  river, 
Orb  after  orb,  the  wondrous  sound 
Is  echoed  on  forever : 
"  Glory  to  God  on  high,  on  earth  be  peace, 
And  love  towards  men  of  love — salvation  and  release.' 

Yet  stay,  before  thou  dare 
To  join  that  festal  throng ; 


CliRTSTMAS    liAY. 


247 


Listen  and  mark  what  gentle  air 

First  stirred  the  tide  of   song : 
'Tis  not,  "  the  Saviour  born  in  David's  home, 
To  whom  for  power  and   health   obedient  worlds   shouk 

come  :" — 


'Tis  not,   "the  Christ  the  Lord  :"— 

With  fixed  adoring  look 
The  choir  of  Angels  caught  the  word, 

Nor  yet  their  silence  broke  : 


248  KEBLE. 

But  when  they  heard  the  sign,  where  Christ  should  be, 
In  sudden  hght  they  shone  and  heavenly  harmony. 

Wrapped  in  His  swaddling  bands. 

And  in  His  manger  laid, 
The  Hope  and  Glory  of  all  lands 
Is  come  to  the  world's  aid : 
No  peaceful  home  upon  His  cradle  smiled. 
Guests  rudely  went  and  came,  where  slept  the  royal  Child. 

But  where  Thou  dwellest,  Lord, 

No  other  thought  should  be, 
Once  duly  welcomed  and  adored, 
How  should  I  part  with  Thee? 
Bethlehem  must  lose  Thee  soon,  but  Thou  wilt  grace 
The  single  heart  to  be  Thy  sure  abiding-place. 

Thee,  on  the  bosom  laid 

Of  a  pure  virgin  mind. 
In  quiet  ever,  and  in  shade, 
Shepherd  and  sage  may  find  ; 
They,  who  have  bowed  untaught  to  Nature's  sway, 
And  they,  who  follow  Truth   along  her  star-paved  way. 

The  pastoral  spirits  first 

Approach  Thee,  Babe  divine. 
For  they  in  lowly  thoughts  are  nursed, 
Meet  for  Thy  lowly  shrine ; 
Sooner  than  they  should  miss  where  Thou  dost  dwell. 
Angels  from  Heaven  will  stoop  to  guide  them  to  Thy  cell. 

Still,  as  the  day  comes  round 
For  Thee  to  be  revealed. 


GOOD    FRIDAY.  249 

By  wakeful  sliepherds  Thou  art  found, 
Abiding  in  the  field. 
All  through  the  wintry  heaven  and  chill   night  air, 
In  music  and  in  light  Thou  dawnest  on  their  prayer. 

0  faint  not  yc  for  fear — 

What  though  your  wandering  sheep, 
Reckless  of  what  they  see  and  hear, 
Lie  lost  in  wilful  sleep? 
High  Heaven  in  mercy  to  your  sad  annoy 
Still  greets  you  with  glad  tidings  of   immortal  joy. 

Think  on  th'  eternal  home 
The  Saviour  left  for  you  ; 
Think  on  the  Lord  most  holy,  come 
To  dwell  with  hearts  untrue  : 
So  shall  ye  tread  untired  His  pastoral  ways, 
And  in  the  darkness  sing  your  carol  of   high  praise. 


GOOD   FRIDAY. 


Is  it  not  strange,  the  darkest  hour 

That  ever  dawned  on  sinful  earth 
Should  touch  the  heart  with  softer  power 
For  comfort,  than  an  Angel's  mirth? 
That  to  the  Cross  the  mourner's  eye  should  turn 
Sooner  than  where  the  stars  of   Christmas  burn? 

Sooner  than  where  the  Easter  sun 
Shines  glorious  on  yon  open  grave, 

03 


250 


KEBLE. 


And  to  and  fro  the  tidings  run, 

"Who  died  to  heal,  is  risen  to  save"? 


j|||iBiiH 


Sooner  than  where  upon  the  Saviour's  friends 
The  very  Comforter  in  Hght  and  love  descends? 

Yet  so  it  is:    for  duly  there 

The  bitter  herbs  of  earth  are  set, 


GOOD    FRIDAY. 


251 


Till  tempered  by  the  Saviour's  prayer, 
And  with  the  Saviour's  hfe-blood  wot, 
They  turn  to  sweetness,  and  drop  holy  balm. 
Soft  as  imprisoned  martyr's  death-bed  calm. 

All  turn  to  sweet — but  most  of   all 
That  bitterest  to  the  hp  of   pride, 
When  hopes  presumptuous  fade  and  fall, 
Or  Friendship  scorns  us,  duly  tried, 
Or  Love,  the  flower  that  closes  up  for  fear 
When  rude  and  selfish  spirits  breathe  too  near. 


Then  hke  a  long-forgotten  strain 


Comes  sweeping  o'er  the  heart  forlorn 
What  sunshine  hours  had  taught  in  vain 
Of   Jesus  suffering  shame  and  scorn, 
As  in  all  lowly  hearts  He  suffers  still, 
While  we  triumphant  ride  and  have  the  world  at  will. 

His  pierced  hands  in  vain  would  hide 
His  face  from  rude  reproachful  gaze, 
His  ears  are  open  to  abide 

The  wildest  storm  the  tongue  can  raise, 
He  who  with  one  rough  word,  some  early  day, 
Their  idol  world  and  them  shall  sweep  for  aye  away 

But  we  by  Fancy  may  assuage 

The  festering  sore  by  Fancy  made, 
Down  in  some  lonely  hermitage 
Like  wounded  pilgrims  safely  laid. 
Where  gentlest  breezes  whisper  souls  distressed, 
That  Love  yet  lives,  and  Patience  shall  find  rest. 


252  KEBLE. 

0 !    shame  beyond  the  bitterest  thought 

That  evil  spirit  ever  framed, 
That  sinners  know  what  Jesus  wrought, 
Yet  feel  their  haughty  hearts  untamed — 
That  souls  in  refuge,  holding  by  the  Cross, 
Should  wince  and  fret  at  this  world's  little  loss. 

Lord  of  my  heart,  by  Thy  last  cry, 

Let  not  Thy  blood  on  earth  be  spent — 
Lo,  at  Thy  feet  I  fainting  lie. 

Mine  eyes  upon  Thy  wounds  are  bent, 
Upon  Thy  streaming  wounds  my  weary  eyes 
Wait  like  the  parchdd  earth  on  April  skies. 

Wash  me,  and  diy  these  bitter  tears, 

0  let  my  heart  no  further  roam, 
'Tis  Thine  by  vows,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 
Long  since — 0  call  Thy  wanderer  home ; 
To  that  dear  home,  safe  in  Thy  wounded  side, 
Where  only  broken  hearts  their  sin  and  shame  may  hide. 


EVENING. 

'Tis  gone,  that  bright  and  orbe'd  blaze. 
Fast  fading  from  our  wistful  gaze ; 
Yon  mantling  cloud  has  hid  from  sight 
The  last  faint  pulse  of  quivering  light. 

In  darkness  and  in  weariness 

The  traveller  on   his  way  must  press, 


EVENING.  253 

No  gleam  to  watch  on  tree  or  tower, 
Whiling  away  the  lonesome  hour. 

Sun  of  my  soul !    Thou  Saviour  cleai', 
It  is  not  night  if   Thou  be  near : 
Oh !    may  no  earth-born  cloud  arise 
To  hide  Thee  ft-om  Thy  servant's  eyes. 

When  round  Thy  wondrous  works  below 
My  searching  ra|)turous  glance  I  throw, 
Tracing  out  Wisdom,  Power,  and  Love, 
In  earth  or  sky,  in  stream  or  grove ; — 

Or  by  the  light  Thy  words  disclose 
Watch  Time's  full  river  as  it  flows, 
Scanning  Thy  gracious  Providence, 
Where  not  too  deep  for  mortal  sense  ; — 

When  with  dear  friends  sweet  talk  I  hold, 
And  all  the  flowers  of  life  unfold ; 
Let  not  my  heart  within  me  burn, 
Except  in  all  I  Thee  discern. 

When  the  soft  dews  of  kindly  sleep 
My  wearied  eyehds  gently  steep. 
Be  my  last  thought,  how  sweet  to  rest 
Forever  on  my  Saviour's  breast. 

Abide  with  me  from  morn  till  eve, 
For  without  Thee  I  cannot  live ; 
Abide  with  me  when  night  is  nigh, 
For  without  Tliee  I  dare  not  die. 


•254 


KEBLE. 


Thou  Framer  of  the  Hght  and  dark, 
Steer  through  the  tempest  Thine  own  arl 
Amid  the  liowling  wintry  sea 
We  are  in  port  if  we  have  Thee. 


The  Rulers  of   this  Christian  land, 
'Twixt  Thee  and  us  ordained  to  stand, — 
Guide  Thou  their  course,   0  Lord,  aright, 
Let  all  do  all  as  in  Thy  sight. 


EVENING.  255 

Oh  !    by  Thine  own  sad  burthen,  borae 
So  meekly  up  the  hill  of   scorn, 
Teach  Thou  Thy  Priests  their  daily  cress 
To  bear  as  Thine,   nor  count  it  loss ! 

If   some  poor  wandering  child  of   Thine 
Have  spurned,  to-day,  the  voice  divine, 
Now,  Lord,  the  gracious  work  begin; 
Let  him  no  more  lie  down  in  sin. 

Watch  by  the  sick :    enrich  the  poor 
With  blessings  from  Thy  boundless  store: 
Be  every  mourner's  sleep  to-night 
Like  infant's  slumbers,  pure  and  light. 

Come  near  and  bless  us  when  we  wake. 
Ere  through  the  world  our  way  we  take : 
Till  in  the  ocean  of  Thy  love 
We  lose  ourselves  in  Heaven  above. 


SHELLEY. 


THE   CLOUD. 


I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowera 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
Fi'om  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 


250 


THE  CLOUD.  257 

When  rocked  to  rest  on  tlieir  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  tlie  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of   the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  ag-ain  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 


T  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of   the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits. 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion. 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of   the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of   the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains  : 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,   with  his  meteor  eyes. 
And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 

Leaps  on  the  back  of   my  sailing  rack, 
When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 

As  on  the  jag  of   a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 

C5 


258  SHELLEY. 

An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of   its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of   eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of   heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest. 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbe'd  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of   her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of   my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of   golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone. 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of   pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-hke  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 


TO    A    SKYLARK.  259 

The  triumphal  arch  througli  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,   fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of   the  air  are  cliained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of   the  sky  : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of   the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,   but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of   heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex  gleams. 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of   the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


TO   A    SKYLARK. 


Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher,- 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 


260  SHELLEY. 

Like  a  cloud  of   tire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,   and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning     . 

Of   the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening. 

Thou  dost  float  and  run 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of   heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,   but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of   that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,   we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
Tlic  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drojjs  so  bright  to  see, 

As   I  rum   liiy   presence  showers  a  rain  of   melody. 


TO    A    SKYI-ARK.  261 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of   thoudit, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  n:iaiden 

Li  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her   bower : 

Like  a  glowworm  golden 

Lr  a  dell  of   dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,   which  screen  it  fi'om   the 
view. 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered. 
Till  the  scent  it  o-ives 
Makes   faint   with   too   much   sweet   these   heavy-winge'd 
thieves. 

Sound  of   vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 


66 


262  shell?:y. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  chine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of   love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of   rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant. 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thino-  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of   thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,   or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of   sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of   annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;    but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of   death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after. 
And   \ih\r   for   what    is   not: 


TO    A    SKYLARK.  263 

Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

■Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If   we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of   delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of   the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half   the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now, 


^.V^  /Ci^ 


<^'»^  t:i,--->7'^ 


HEMANS. 


WASHINGTON'S  STATUE. 


Yes  !    rear  thy  guardian  hero's  form 

On  thy  proud  soil,  thou  Western  World 
A  watcher  through  each  sign  of  storm, 


O'er  fi'eedom's  flag  unfurled. 


264 


THE    BETTER    LAND.  265 

There,  as  before  a  shrine,  to  bow, 

Bid  thy  true  sons  their  children  lead  : 
The  language  of  that  noble  brow 
For  all  things  good  shall  plead. 

The  spirit  reared  in  patriot  fight, 

The  virtue  born  of  home  and  hearth. 
There  calmly  throned,  a  holy  light 
Shall  pour  o'er  chainless  earth. 

And  let  that  work  of   England's  hand, 

Sent  through  the  blast  and  surges'  roar, 
So  girt  with  tranquil  glory,  stand 
For  ages  on  thy  shore ! 

Such,  through  all  time,  the  greetings  be, 

That  with  the  Atlantic  billow  sweep  ! 
Telling  the  mighty  and  the  free 
Of  brothers  o'er  the  deep  ! 


THE   BETTEK   LAND. 


"I  HEAR  thee  speak  of   the  better  land, 
Thou  call'st  its  children  a  happy  band ; 
Mother  !    0,  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? 
Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows. 
And  the  fire-flies  glance  through  the  myrtle  boughs?" 
"Not  there,  not  there,  my  child!" 


07 


266 


HEMA^•S. 


"  Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  sljies? 
Or  'midst  the  green  islands  of   glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  jDerfume  the  breeze, 
And  strange,  briglit  birds  on  their  starry   wings 
Bear  the  rich  hues  of   all  sflorious  things?" 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  mv  child  !" 


"  Is  it  far  away,  in  some  region  old. 

Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of   "old? — 


THE    KHINK.  267 

Where  the  buniiug  rays  of   the  ruby  shine, 
And  the  diamond  Hghts  up  the  secret  mine, 
And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the  coral  strand? — 
Is  it  there,  sweet  mother!    that  better  land?" 
"Not  there,  not  there,  my  child! 

"  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy  ! 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy  ; 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair — 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there  : 
Time  dotli  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom, 
For  beyond  the  clouds,  and  beyond  the  tomb, — 
It  is  there,  it  is  there;   my  child!" 


THE    RHINE. 

It  is  the  Rhine  !    our  mountain  vineyards  laving, 

I  see  the  bright  flood  shine  ! 
Sing  on  the  march  with  every  banner  waving — 

Sing,  brothers  1    'tis  the  R.hine  ! 

The  Rhine  !    the  Rhine  !    our  own  imperial  river ! 

Be  glory  on  thy  track ! 
We  left  thy  shores,  to  die  or  to  deliver — 

AVe  bear  thee  freedom  back  ! 

Hail !    hail  !    my  childhood  knew  thy  rush  of   water. 

Even  as  my  mother's  song ; 
That  sound  went  past  me  on  the  field  of   slaughter, 

And  heart  and  arm  grew  strong  ! 


268 


HEMANS. 


Roll  proudly  on ! — brave  blood  is  with  thee  sweeping, 

Poured  out  by  sons  of  thine, 
Where  sword  and  sjsirit  forth  in   joy  were  leaping, 

Like  thee,  victorious  Rhine ! 

Home  !    home  !    Thy  glad  wave  hath  a  tone  of  greeting, 

Thy  path  is  by  my  home. 
Even  now  my  children  count  the  hours  till  meeting : 

0  ransomed  ones  !    I  come. 


^^W^TWr't 


Go  tell  the  seas,  that  chain  shall   bind  thee  never 

Sound  on  by  hearth  and  shrine  ! 
Sing  through  the  hills  that  thou  art  free  forever — 

Lift  up  thy  voice,  0  Rhine ! 


A   PARTING    SONG.  269 


A  PARTINCI    SONG. 


When   will  ye  think  of   me,  my  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of   mo? — • 
When  the  last  red  light,  the  farewell  of   day. 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  is  passing  away— 
When  the  air  with  a  deepening  hush  is  fraught, 
And  the  heart  grows  burdened  with  tender  thought. 
Then  let  it  be ! 

When  will  ye  think  of   me,  kind  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of   me? — 
When  the  rose  of   the  rich  midsummer  time 
Is  filled  with  the  hues  of   its  glorious  prime — 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hours  fled, 
From  the  walks  where  my  footsteps  no  more  may  tread- 
Then  let  it  be  1 

When  will  ye  think  of   me,  sweet  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of   me? — 
When  the  sudden  tears  o'erflow  your  eye 
At  the  sound  of   some  olden  melody — • 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of   a  mountain  stream. 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of   a  poet's  dream — 
Then  let  it  be  ! 

Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,   friends! 

Thus  ever  think  of  me  ! 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of   one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone — 
As  of   a  bird  fi'om  a  chain  unbound. 
As  of   a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found — 
So  let  it  be  ! 

GS 


-yi 


lijiaM  - 


KEATS. 


ODE   ON   A   GRECIAN   UEN. 


Thou  still  unravislied  bride  of  quietness ! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme ; 


270 


ODE    ON    A    GRECIAN    URN.  271 

What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of   deities  or  mortals,  or  of   both, 

In  Tempo  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    what  maidens  loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?     What  wild  ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,   but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;    therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,   play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endearcnl. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of   no  tone  : 
Fair  youth,   beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,   nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare  ; 
Bold  lover,  never,   never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !    that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  iiappy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  !    more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

Forever  warm,  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
Forever  panting  and  forever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high -sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 
To  what  green  altar,  0  mysterious  priest, 


272  KEATS. 

Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore,    . 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of   its  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,   thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be  ;    and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,   can  e'er  return. 

0  Attic  shape !    Fair  attitude !    with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !    dost  tease  us  out  of   thouQ-ht 
As  doth  eternity  :    Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of   other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


TO   AUTUMN. 


Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage- trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 


TO    AUTUMN. 


273 


To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;    to  set  budding  more, 
A.nd  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will   never  cease. 

Per  Summer  has  o'cr-brimmed  their  clammy   cells. 


\V^ho  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of   poppies,  while  thy  hook 


274  KEATS. 

Spares  tlie  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers ; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,   with  patient  look, 

Thon  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of   them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing ;    and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering;  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


SONNET  TO   KOSCIUSKO. 

Good  Kosciusko !    thy  great  name  alone 

Is  a  full  harvest  whence  to  reap  high  feeling ; 
It  comes  upon  us  like  a  glorious  pealing 

Of  the  wide  spheres — an  everlasting  tone. 

And  now  it  tells  me  that,  in  worlds  urdcnown, 

The  names  of  heroes,  burst  from  clouds  concealing, 
Are  changed  to  harmonies,  forever  stealing 

Through  cloudless  blue,  and  round  each  silver  throne. 


SONNKT    TO    KOSCIUSKO. 


275 


It  tells  me,   too,   that  on  a  happy  day. 

When  some  good  spirit  walks  upon  the  earth. 

Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great  of  yore, 
Gently  commingling,  gives  tremendous  birth 

To  a  loud  hymn,  that  sounds   ftir,   far  away 

To  where  the  great  Goil  lives  for  evermore. 


MOTHERWELL. 


4  1l^-W■^^^1^ 


THE  SUMMER  MONTHS. 


They  come  !    the  merry  summer  montlis 

Of   beauty,  song,  and  flowers ; 
They  come  !    tlie  gladsome  months  that  bring 

Thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 
Up,   up,  my  heart!    and  walk  abroad, 

Fling  cark  and  care  aside, 

270 


THE    SUMMER    MONTHS.  27  i 

Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself 

Where  peaceful  waters  glide ; 
Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast 

Of  patriarchal  tree. 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky 

In  rapt  tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch 

Is  grateful  to  the  hand, 
And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love, 

The  breeze  is  sweet  and  bland ; 
The  daisy  and  the  buttercup 

Are  nodding  courteously. 
It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love 

To  bless  and  welcome  thee : 
And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks — 

They  now  are  silvery  gray — 
That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning. 

And  whispering,   "Be  gay!" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along 

The  ocean  of   yon  sky 
But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners 

To  give  it  melody  ; 
Thou  see'st  their  glittering  fans  outspread 

All  gleaming  like  red  gold. 
And  hark!    with  shrill  pipe  musical, 

Their  merry  course  they  hold. 
God  bless  them  all,  these  little  ones, 

Who  far  above  this  earth. 
Can  make  a  scoff  of   its  mean  joys, 

And  vent  a  nobler  mirth. 


278  MOTHERWELL. 

But  soft !    mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound, 

From  yonder  wood  it  came  ; 
The  spirit  of   the  dim,  green  glade 

Did  breathe  his  own  glad  name ; — 
Yes,  it  is  he !    the  hermit  bird. 

That,  apart  from  all  his  kind. 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous 

To  the  soft  western  wind ; 
Cuckoo  !    cuckoo  1    he  sings  again — 

His  notes  are  v^oid  of  art. 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound 

The  deep  founts  of   the  heart ! 

Good  Lord  !    it  is  a  gracious  boon 

For  thouo;ht-crazed  wio;ht  like  me 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers 

Beneath  this  summer  tree ! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath 

Their  little  souls  away. 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams 

Of  youth's  bright  summer  day, 
When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt, 

The  reckless  truant  boy 
Wandered  through  green  woods  all  day  long, 

A  mighty  heart  of  joy ! 

I'm  sadder  now,  I  have  had  cause; 

But  oh !    I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount  loved  of  yore 

I  yet  delight  to  drink ; — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream, 

The  calm,   uncloudeil  sky, 


TIIK    SUMMER    MONTHS. 


279 


Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams, 

As  in   the  days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light 

Fall  round  me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse,- 

A  heart  that  hath  waxed  old. 


HOOD. 


RUTH. 


She  stood  breast  liigli  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  tlio  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 


2S0 


RUTH.  281 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  fkish 
Deeply  ripened  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  witli  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell ; 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell. 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim ; — ■ 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks. 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks ; — 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


THE   DEATH-BED. 

We  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  mghr. 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

71 


282  HOOD. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS. 

One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of   breath. 

Rashly  importunate. 
Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly. 

Lii't  her  wirn   care ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair ! 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS. 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements  ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,   not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully ; 
Think  of   her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of   the  stains  of   her, 
All  that  remains  of   her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful : 
Past  all  dishonor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of   hers, 
One  of   Eve's  family — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of   hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb. 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where   was  her  home? 


283 


284  HOOD. 


WJio  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 

Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas  !    for  the  rarity 
Of   Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh  !    it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full. 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly. 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence. 
Thrown  from  its  eminence : 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
.From  garret  to  basement. 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of   March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 


'rill-;    IIRIDGK    OF    SIGHS. 

But  not  the  dark  arcli, 

Or  tlie  black  flowing  river: 

Mad  from  life's  history, 

Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurled, — 

Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of   the  world! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of   it, 

Then,  if  you  can  1 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,   and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly. 

Decently, — kindly, — 
Smooth,  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Thro'  muddy  impurity, 


2S^ 


Ti 


286  HOOD. 


As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of   despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior. 
And  leaving,  with  meekness. 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ' 


MACAU  LAY. 


HOM/E 


PRJIAORDIA. 


THE    PROPHECY    OF    CAPYS. 

Now  slain  is  Kino;  Ainiilius, 

Of   the  great  Sylvian  line, 
Who  reigned  in  Alba  Longa, 

On  the  throne  of  Aventine. 
Slain  is  the  Pontiff  Gamers, 

Who  spake  the  words  of   doom 
"The  children  to  the  Tiber, 

The  mother  to  the  tomb." 

In  Alba's  lake  no  tisher 
His  net  to-day  is  flinging ; 

On  the  dark  rind  of  Alba's  oaks 
To-day  no  axe  is  ringing  -. 


288 


MACATJLAY. 


The  yoke  hangs  o'er  the  manger : 
The  scythe  lies  in  the  hay ; 

Through  all  the  Alban  villages 
No  work  is  done  to-day. 

And  every  Aloan  burgher 

Hath  donned  his  whitest  gown ; 
And  every  head  in  Alba 

Weareth  a  poplar  crown ; 
And  every  Alban  door-post 

With  boughs  and  flowers  is  gay : 
For  to-day  the  dead  are  living ; 

The  lost  are  found  to-day. 


They  were  doomed  by  a  bloody   king : 

They  were  doomed  by  a  lying  priest : 
They  were  cast  on  the ,  raging  flood : 

They  were  tracked  by  the  raging  beast 
Raging  beast  and  raging  flood 

Alike  have  spared  the  prey ; 
And  to-day  the  dead  are  living: 

The  lost  are  found  to-dav. 


THE    PROPHECY    OF    CAPYS. 


289 


The  troubled  river  knew  them, 

And  smoothed  his  yellow  foam, 
And  gently  rocked  the  cradle 

That  bore  the  fate  of  Rome. 
The  ravening  she-wolf  knew  them, 

And  licked  them  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  gave  them  of   her  own  tierce  milk.. 

Rich  with  raw  flesh  and  gore. 
Twenty  winters,  twenty  springs, 

Since  then  have  rolled  away ; 
And  to-day  the  dead  are  living : 

The  lost  are  found  to-day. 


Blithe  it  was  to  see  the  twins, 

Right  goodly  youths  and  tall, 
Marchine;  from  Alba  Long-a 

To  their  old  grandsire's  hall. 
Along  their  path  fresh  garlands 

Are  hung  from  tree  to  tree : 
Beside  them  stride  the  pipers. 

Piping  a  note  of  glee. 

73 


290 


MACAU  LAY. 


■•'■li'if     :   ^~   '--       '*"li 


On  the  right  goes  Romulus, 

Witli  arms  to  the  elbows  red, 
And  in  his  hand  a  broadsword. 

And  on  the  blade  a  head — 
A  head  in  an  iron  helmet, 

With  horse-hair  hanging  down, 
A  shaggy  head,  a  swarthy  head, 

Fixed  in  a  ghastly  frown — 
The  head  of   King  Amulius, 

Of   the  great  Sylvian  line, 
Wlio  reigned  in  Alba  Longa, 

On  the  throne  of  Aventine. 


On  tlie  left  side  goes  Remus, 
With  wrists  and  fingers  red, 


THE    PROPHECY    OF    CAPYS. 


291 


«i-Jj! 


:^=j 


Aii'l   in   his  hand  a  boar-spear, 

And  on  the  point  a  head — 
A  wrinkled  head  and  aged, 

AVith  silver  beard  and  liair, 
And  holy  fillets  round  it. 

Such  as  the  pontiffs  wear — 
The  head  of   ancient  Gamers, 

Who  spake  the  words  of   doom  : 
"The  children  to  the  Tiber, 

The  mother  to  the  tomb." 

Two  and  two  behind  the   twins 

Their  trusty  comrades  go, 
Four-and-forty  valiant  men, 

With  club,  and  axe,  and  bow. 
On  each  side  every  hamlet 

Pours  forth  its  joyous  crowd. 
Shouting  lads  and  baying  dogs, 

And  children  laughing  loud. 
And  old  men  weeping  fondly 

As  Rhea's  boys  go  by. 
And  maids  who  shriek  to  see  the  heads. 

Yet,  shrieking,  press  more  nigh. 

So  they  marched  along  the  lake  ; 

They  marched  by  fold  and  stall, 
By  cornfield  and  by  vineyard, 

Unto  the  old  man's  hall. 

In  the  hall-gate  sate  Capys, 

Capys,  the  sightless  seer; 
From  head  to  foot  he  trembled. 

As  Romulus  drew  near. 


s.tn'LL.'-,  ni'"/ 


292  MACAULAY. 

And  up  stood  stiff  his  thin  white  hair 
And  his  bHiid  eyes  flashed  fire  : 

"Hail!  foster-child  of   the  wondrous  nurse 
Hail !    son  of   the  wondrous  sire  ! 


"But  thou — what  dost  thou  here' 

In  the  old  man's  peaceful  hall  ? 
What  doth  the  eagle  in  the  coop, 

The  bison  in  the  stall? 
Our  corn  fills  many  a  garner; 

Our  vines  clasp  many  a  tree ; 
Our  flocks  are  white  on  many  a  hill ; 

But  these  are  not  for  thee. 


"For  thee  no  treasure  ripens 

In  the  Tartessian  mine: 
For  thee  no  ship  brings  precious  bales 

Across  the  Libyan  brine : 


THE    PROVIIECY    01'^    CAPYS. 


293 


Thou  slialt  not  drink  from  umber 
Thou  shalt  not  rest  on  down  ; 

Arabia  shall  not  steep  thy  locks, 
Nor  Sidon  tinge  thy  gown. 


e^ 


?\        ^    ml: 


'^^  ^.j^/t'\  £<!% 


"Leave  gold  and  myrrh  and  jewels, 

Rich  table  and  soft  bed, 
To  them  who  of   man's  seed  are  born, 

Whom  woman's  milk  hath  fed. 
Thou  wast  not  made  for  lucre, 

For  pleasure,   nor  for  rest ; 
Thou,  that  art  sprung  from  the  War-god's  loins. 

And  hast  tugged  at  the  she-wolf's  breast. 


kr: 


294 


MACAULAY. 


%\ 


"  From  sunrise  unto  sunset 

All  earth  shall  hear  thy  fame : 
A  glorious  city  thou  shalt  build, 

And  name  it  by  thy  name  : 
And  there,  unquenched  through  ages, 

Like  Vesta's  sacred  fire, 
Shall  live  the  spirit  of   thy  nurse. 

The  spirit  of   thy  sire. 


X. 


m 


\i 


rcONBj 


"The  ox  toils  through  the  furrow, 

Obedient  to  the  goad ; 
The  patient  ass,   up  flinty  paths. 

Plods  with  his  weary  load  : 
With  whine  and  bound  the  spaniel 

His  master's  whistle  hears  ; 
And  the  slieep  yields  her  patiently 

To  the  loud-clashino-  shears. 


''But  thy  nurse  will  hear  no  master, 

Thv  nurse  will  bear  no  load  ; 
And   woo  to  them  that  shear  her. 

And  woe  to  them  that  goad  ! 
When   all   the  pack,   loud  baying. 

Her  bloody  lair  surrounds. 
She  dies  in  silence,  biting  hard, 

Amidst  the  dying  hounds. 


•w/ 


"Pomona  lovos  the  orchard, 
And  Liber  loves  the  vine  ; 

And  Pales  loves  the  straw-built  shed 
Warm  with  the  breath  of   kine  ; 


iZ 


-^r« 


TlIK    PROrPIKCY    OF    CAPYS. 


29" 


^v^? 


g>^ 


t^. 


^11^ 


Aiu]  Vcnu.s  loves  tlic  whispers 

Of   plighted  youth  and  iiiiiid, 
In  iipril's  ivory   moonlight, 

Beneath  the  cliostnut  shade. 

"  But  thy  father  loves  tlie  clashing 

Of  broadsword  and  of   shield  : 
fie  loves  to  drink  the  steam  that  reeks 

From  the  fresh  battle-iield  : 
He  smiles  a  smile  more  dreadful 

Than  his  own  dreadful  frown, 
When  he  sees  the  thick  black  cloud  of  smoke 

Go  up  from  the  conquered  town. 

"And  such  as  is  the  AVar-god, 

The  author  of   thy  line. 
And  such  as  she  who  suckled  thee. 

Even  such  be  thou  and  thine. 
Leave  to  the  soft  Campanian 

His  baths  and  his  perfumes  ; 
Leave  to  the  sordid  race  of   Tyre 

Their  dyeing-vats  and  looms  : 


^'■^'^:T--^'^^oif^ 


r^- 


fv*,Li; 


km  mm 


296 


MACAULAY. 


Leave  to  the  sons  of   Carthage 

The  rudder  and  the  oar : 
Leave  to  the  Greek  his  marble  jSTymphs 

And  scrolls  of   wordy  lore. 


SPOHA 

OPlMA 


"  Thine,   Roman,  is  the  pilum  : 

Roman,  the  sword  is  thine, 
The  even  trench,  the  bristling  mound, 

The  legion's  ordered  line  ; 
And  thine  the  wheels  of   triumph, 

AVhich  with  their  laurelled  train 
Move  slowly  up  the  shouting  streets 

To  Jove's  eternal  fane. 

"  Beneath  thy  yoke  the  Volscian 

Shall  vail  his  lofty  brow  : 
Soft  Capua's  curled  revellers 

Before  thy  chairs  shall  bow  : 
The  Lucuinoes  of  Arnus 

Shall   quake  tliy  rods  to  see ; 
And  the  proud  Samnite's  heai't  of  steo 

Shall  yield  to  only  thee. 

"The  Gaul  shall  come  against  thee 
From  the  land  of   snow  and  night : 

Thou  shalt  give  his  fair-haired  armies 
To  the  raven  and  the  kite. 

"The  Greek  shall  come  against  tliee. 
The  conqueror  of  the  East. 

Beside  him  stalks  to  battle 
The  huge  eartli-shaking  beast. 


THK    PKOPilECY    OF    CAPYS. 


297 


-'^Si 


Tlie  beast  ou  whom  tlie  castle 

With  all  its  guards  doth  stand, 
The  beast  who  hath  between  his  eyes 

The  serpent  for  a  hand. 
First  march  the  bold  Epirotes, 

Wedged  close  with  shield  and  sriear; 
\nd  the  ranks  of   false  Tarentnm 

Are  slitterlno;  in  the  rear. 


"The  ranks  of   false  Tarentnm 

Like  hunted  sheep  shall  fly  : 
In  vain  the  bold  Epirotes 

Shall  round  their  standards  die  : 
And  Apennine's  gray  vultures 

Shall  have  a  noble  feast 
On  the  fat  and  tlie  eyes 

Of  the  huge  earth-shaking  beast. 

"Hurrah!    for  the  g^ood  weapons 
That  keep  the  War-god's  land. 


-<sir.  ^ 


V    /p^--^^^ 


298 


MACAULAY. 


VEN 


VIDI 


VICi 


Hurrah !    for  Pvome's  stout  pilura 

In  a  stout  E,oraan  hand. 
Hurrah  !    for  Piome's  short  broadsword, 

That  through  the  thick  array 
Of  levelled  spears  and  serried  shields 

Hews  deep  its  gory  way. 


for  the  great  triumph 


_L_ 


"Hurrah! 

That  stretches  many  a  mile. 
Hurrah !    for  the  wan  captives 

That  pass  in  endless  file. 
Ho !    bold  Epirotes,  whither 

Hath  the  Red  King  ta'en  flight? 
Ho !    dogs  of   false  Tarentum, 

Is  not  the  gown  washed  white  ? 

"Hurrah!    for  the  great  triumph 

That  stretches  many  a  mile. 
Hurrah  !    for  the  rich  dye  of   Tyre, 

And  the  fine  web  of   Nile, 
The  helmets  gay  with  plumage 

Torn  from  the  pheasant's  wings, 
The  belts  set  thick  with  starry  gems 

That  shone  on  Indian  kings, 
The  urns  of  massy  silver, 

Tne  goblets  rougli  with  gold, 
The  many-colored  tablets  bright 

With  loves  and  wars  of  old. 
The  stone  that  breathes  and  struggles, 

Tlie  brass  that  seems  to  speak  :— 
Such  cunning  they  who  dwell  on  high 

Have  given  unto  the  Greek. 


THK    PKUPllKGY    OF    CAl'Yti. 


299 


-Ns 


jy 


y 


■'Hurrah!    for  Manius  CuriujJ 

The  bi-avesi  son  of   Rome, 
Thrice  in  utmost  need  sent  forth, 

Thrice  drawn  in  triumph  home. 
Weave,   weave,   for  Manius  Curius 

The  third  embroidered  gown  : 
Make  ready  the  third  lofty  car 

And  twine  the  third  green  crown  ; 
And  yoke  the  steeds  of  Eosea 

With  necks  Kke  a  bended  bow  ; 
And  deck  the  bull,  Mevania's  bull, 

The  bull  as  white  as  snow. 

"Blest  and  thrice  blest  the  Roman 
Who  sees  Rome's  brightest  day. 

Who  sees  that  long  victorious  pomp 
Wind  down  the  Sacred  Way, 


3on 


MACAULAY. 


And  through  the  bellowing  Forum, 
And  round  the  Suppliant's  Grove, 

Up  to  the  everlasting  gates 
Of  Capitolian  Jove. 

"Then  where,  o'er  two  bright  havens, 

The  towers  of   Corinth  frown  ; 
Where  the  gigantic  King  of   Day 

On  his  own  Rhodes  looks  down  ; 
Where  soft  Orontes  murmurs 

Beneath  the  laurel  shades ; 
Where  Nile  reflects  the  endless  length 

Of  dark-red  colonnades ; 


i^iM^ 


'\  'il 


3 


THE    PROPHKCY    OF    CAPYS. 


301 


Where  in  the  still  deep  wuter, 

Sheltered  IVom  waves  and  blasts, 
Bristles  the  dusky  forest 

Of   Byrsa's  thousand  masts  ; 
Where  fur-clad  hunters  wander 

Amidst  the  northern  ice ; 
Where  through  the  sand  of  morning-land 

The  camel  bears  the  spice  ; 
Where  Atlas  flings  his  shadow 

Far  o'er  the  western  foam, 
Shall  be  great  fear  on  all  who  hear 

The  mighty  name  of   Rome." 


^^>v 


MES.   BROWNING. 


LOVED  ONCE. 


I  CLASSED,  ajjpraisiug  once, 
l']artli'y  lamentable  sounds ;    the  welladay, 

The  jarring  yea  and  nay, 
The  fall  of   kisses  on  unanswering  clay, 
The  sobbed  farewell,   the  welcome  mournruller ; 

But  111!  did  leaven  the  air 
With  a  less  bitter  leaven  of  sure  despair. 

Than   these  words — "T  loved  once." 

.•i02 


LOVED    ONCE.  oOo 

Ami  who  Kiiitli,   "I  loved  once"? 
Not  angels,  whose  clear  eyes,  love,  love,   foresee. 

Love  through  eternity. 
And   by    To  Love   do   apprehend  To  Be. 
Not  God,  called  Love,  his  noble  crown-name, — casting 

A  light  too  broad  for  blasting ! 
The  great  God  changing  not  from  everlasting 

Saith  never,   "I  loved  once." 

Oh,  never  is   "Loved  once" 
Thy  word,  Thou  Victim-Christ,  misprized  friend. 

Thy  cross  and  curse  may  rend  ; 
But,  having  loved.  Thou  lovest  to  the  end  ! 
This  is  man's  saying — man's.     Too  weak  to  move 

One  sphered  star  above, 
Man  desecrates  the  eternal  God-word  Love 

By  his  No  More,  and  Once. 

How  say  ye,   "We  loved  once," 
Blasphemers  ?     Is  your  earth  not  cold  enow. 

Mourners,  without  that  snow? 
Ah,  friends  !    and  would  ye  wrong  each  other  so  ? 
And  could  ye  say  of   some,  whose  love  is  known, 

Whose  prayers  have  met  your  own. 
Whose  tears  have  fallen  for  you,  whose  smiles  have  shone 

Bo  Jong,   "We  loved  them  once"? 

Could  ye,   "We  loved  her  once," 
Say  calm  of  me,  sweet  fi-iends,  when  out  of  sight? 

When  hearts  of   better  right 
Stand  in  between  me  and  your  happy  light? 


304  MES.  browjs-ia-g. 

Or  when,   as  flowers  kept  too  long  in  the  shade, 

Ye  find  my  colors  fade, 
And   all  that  is  not  love  in  me,  decayed? 

Such  words, — Ye  loved  me  once  ! 

Could  ye,   "We  loved  her  once," 
Say  cold  of  me,  when  further  put  away 

In  earth's  sepulchral  clay? 
When  mute  the  lips  which  deprecate  to-day  ? — 
Not  so !    not  then, — least  then  !    When  Life  is  shriven, 

And  Death's  full  joy  is  given, — 
Of   those  who  sit  and  love  you  up  in  Heaven, 

Say  not,   "We  loved  them  once." 

Say  never,  ye  loved  once  ! 
God  is  too  near  above,  the  grave,  beneath, 

And  all  our  moments  breathe 
Too  quick  in  mysteries  of   life  and  death, 
For  such  a  word.     The  eternities  avenge 

Affections  lio-ht  of   ramje. 
There  comes  no  change  to  justify  that  change, 

Whatever  comes — Lo\-ed  once  ! 

And  yet  that  same  word  once 
Te  humanly  acceptive  !     Kings  have  said, 

Shaking  a  discrowned  liead, 
"We  ruled  once," — dotards,  "We  once  taught  and  led."— 
Cripples  once  danced  i'  the  vines — and   bards   approved. 

Were  once  by  scornings    moved : 
But  love  strikes  one  hour — love.     Those  never  loved, 

Wlio  dream  that  they  loved  once. 


cowper's  gravr.  305 


COWPEE'S  GEAVE. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned 

May  feel  the  heart's  decaying, — 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints 

May  weep  amid  their  praying: 
Yet  let  the  grief   and  humbleness, 

As  low  as  silence,  languish  ! 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 

To  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

0  poets  !    from  a  maniac's  tongue 

Was  poured  the  deathless  singing! 
0  Christians  !    at  your  cross  of   hope 

A  hopeless  hand  was  clinging ! 
0  men  !    this  man,  in  brotherhood. 

Your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 

And  died  while  ye  were  smiling ! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 

Through  dimming  tears  his  story. 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell. 

And  darkness  on  the  glory, 
And  how,  when  one  by  one  sweet  sounds 

And  wandering  lights  departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face 

Because  so  broken-hearted , 


77 


306  MRS.    BROWNING. 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify 

The  poet's  high  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down 

In  meeker  adoration  : 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise, 

By  wise  or  good  forsaken  ; 
Named  softly,  as  the  household  name 

Of   one  whom  God  hath  taken. 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom, 

I  learn  to  think  upon  him. 
With  meekness,   that  is  gi-atefulness 

To  God  whose  heaven  hath  won  him — 
Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud 

To  His  own  love  to  blind  him, 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along 

Where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him ; 

And  wrought  withm  his  shattered  brain 

Such   quick  poetic  senses 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars 

Harmonious  infiuences  ! 
The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass 

Kept  his  within  its  number; 
And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees 

Refreshed  him  like  a  slumber. 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from   woods 
To  share  his  home-caresses, 

Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes 
With  sylvan  tendernesses  : 


cowi'kr's  grave.  SO"/ 

The  very   world,   by  God's  constraint, 
From  falseliood's  ways  removing, 

Its  women  and  its  men  became 
Beside  him   tnu;  and  loving. 


^in- 


And  tliouah,  in  blindness,  he  remained 

Unconscious  of   that  guiding, 
And  tilings  provided  came  without 

The  sweet  sense  of   providing, 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth, 

Wliile  &-enzy-desolated — 
Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy 

Whom  only  God  created ! 

Like  a  sick  chikl  that  knoweth  not 

His  mother  while  she  blesses 
And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow 

The  coolness  of   her  kisses ; 
That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around — 

"My  mother!    where's  my  mother?" — 
As  if   such  tender  words  and  deeds 

Could  come  from  any  other  1 — 

The  fever  gone,   with  leaps  of   heart 

He  sees  her  bending  o'er  him ; 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love, 

The  unweary  love  she  bore  him  ! — 
Thus,  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream 

His  life's  long  fever  gave  him. 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  Eyes, 

Which  closed  in  death    to  save  him  ! 

Thus?    oh,   not  thus/    no  type  of   earth 
Can  image  that  awaking, 


308  MRS.    BROWNING. 

Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant 
Of   seraphs  round  liim  breaking, 

Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb 
Of   soul  from  body   parted  ; 

But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew 
"My  Saviour!    not  deserted!" 

Deserted  !    who  hath  dreamt  that  when 

The  cross  in  darkness  rested 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face, 

No  love  was  manifested? 
What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er 

The  atoning  drops  averted, 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul. 

That  one  should  be  deserted? 

Deserted !    God  could  separate 

From  His  own  essence  rather : 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between 

The  righteous  Son  and  Father ; 
Yea,  once  Immanuel's  orphaned  cry 

His  universe  hath  shaken — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless, 

"My  God,   I  am  forsaken!" 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips 

Amid  His  lost  creation. 
That,  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use 

Those  words  of  desolation ; 
That  earth's  worst  frenzies,  marring  hope, 

Should  mar  not  hope's  fruition. 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see 

His  rapture,  in  a  vision  ! 


THE  lady's  "yks."  309 


THE    LADY'S   "YES." 

"  Yes  !"    I  answered  you  last  night , 
"No!"    this  morning,  Sir,   I  say: 

Colors  seen  by  candlelight 

Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the  viols  played  their  best, 
Lamps  above,  and  laughs  Ijelow— 

Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest. 
Fit  ibr  Yes,  or  ht  for  No. 

Call  me  false,  or  call  me  free — 
Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, 

No  man  on  your  face  shall  see 
Any  grief   for  change  on  mine. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both — 
Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo — 

Wooing  light  makes  fickle  troth — 
Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 

Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 
Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high ; 

Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death — 
With  a  loyal  gravity. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards, 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies. 

Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words, 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 


31C  MRS.    BROWNING 

By  3'our  truth  she  shall  be  true — 
Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore — • 

And  her  Yes,  once  said  to  you. 
Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore. 


THE  SLEEP. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar 

Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
jSTow  tell  me  if   that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this  ? — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,   to  be  unmoved. 

The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse. 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ?- 

'■  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust,  to  overweep, 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

"Sleep  soft,  beloved!'  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 


THE    SLKKP.  311 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep  : 
But  never  doleful  dream  ao'ain 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber,   when 

"He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

0  earth,  so  full  of   dreary  noises  ! 
0  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 
0  delve'd  gold,  the  wallers  heap ! 

0  strife,  0  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall  ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And   "giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  tlie  hill. 
His  cloud  above  it  sailetli  still, 

Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

"He  giveth  His  beloved,   sleep." 

Ay !    men    may    wonder  while  they  scan 
A  livino-    thinkino-    feelino;  man, 

Confirmed    in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say — and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

For  me,   my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap — 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 

Who   "giveth   His  beloved,  sleep!" 


312  MRS.    BROWNING. 

And,  friends,  dear  friends, — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,   "Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall — 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


SEEAPH    AND    POET. 


The  seraph  sings  before  the  manifest 
God-One,  and  in  the  burning  of   the  Seven, 
And  with  the  full  life  of   consummate  Heaven 
Heaving  beneath  him,  like  a  mother's  breast 
Warm  with  her  first-born's  slumber  in  that  nest ! 
The  poet  sings  upon  the  earth  grave-riven ; 
Before  the  naughty  world,  soon  self-forgiven 
For  wronging  him ;    and  in  the  darkness  prest 
From  his  own  soul  by  worldly  weights.    Even  so, 
Sing,   seraph  with  the  glory  !     Heaven  is  high — 
Sing,  poet  with  the  sorrow !     Earth  is  low. 
The  universe's  inward  voices  cry 
"Amen!"    to  either  song  of  joy  and  woe — 
Sing  seraph, — poet, — sing  on  equally. 


TENNYSON. 


V 


THE   BROOK. 


"Heee,  by   this  brook,   we  parted;    I  to  the  East, 
And  he  for  Italy — too  late — too  late  : 
One  whom  the  strong  sons  of   the  world  despise; 
For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and  share, 


313 


■6U 


TENNYSON. 


And  mellow  metres  more  tlian  cent  for  cent ; 
Nor  could  he  understund  how  money  breeds, 
Thoudit  it  a  dead  thinn; ;    yet  himself  could  make 
The  thin<i  that  is  not  as  the  thing;  that  is. 
0  had  lie  lived  !    In  our  school-books  we  say, 
Of   those  that  held  theii'  heads  above  the  crowd, 
They  Nourished  then  or  then  ;    but  life  in  hiin 
Could  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only  touched 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of  green, 
And  nothing  perfect ;    yet  the  brook  he  loved, 


THE     BROOK.  315 

For   wliicli,   ill  bnmdiiiii;  summers  oF   Bcn,tfal, 

Or  e'en  the  sweet  half-English  Neilgherry  air, 

I  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it, 

Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the  boy. 

To  me  that  loved  him;    for  '0  brook,'   he  says, 

'0  babbling  brook,'  says  Edmund  in   his  rliyrne, 

'Whence  come  you?'  and  the  brook,   wiiy  not?    replies. 

I  come  from  haunts  of   coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern. 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By   thirty   hills  I  hurry  down. 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town. 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  c:o  on  forever. 

"Poor  lad,   he  died  at  Florence,   quite  worn  out. 
Travelling  to  Naples.     There  is  Damley  bridge. 
It  has  more  ivy  ;    tliere  the  river ;    and  there 
Stands  Philip's  farm  where  brook  and  river  meet. 

I  chatter  over  stony   ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  jaebbles. 


316  TKNNYSON. 

With  many  a  curve  ray  banks  I  fret 
By   many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 


iD" 


"But  Philip  chattered  more  than  brook  or  birc 
Old  Philip  ;    all  about  the  fields  you  caught 
•His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the  dry 
High-elbowed  grigs  that  leap  in  summer  grass. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel. 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gi-avel. 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

"0  darlins;  Katie  Willows,  his  one  child! 
A  maiden  of   our  century,  yet  most  meek ; 


THE    BKOOK.  317 

A  daughter  of   our  meadows,  yet  not  coarbo ; 
Straight,  but  as  Ussome  as  a  hazel  wand ; 
Her  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within. 

"Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good  turn, 
Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  betrothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart  with  lier. 
For  her  I  came,  twenty  years  back — the  week 
Before  I  parted  with  poor  Edmund  ;    crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,   half   in  ruins  then. 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond  it,   where  the  waters  marry — crost. 
Whistling  a  random  bar  of   Bonny  Doon, 
And  pushed  at  Philip's  gardeu-gate.     The  gate. 
Half-parted  from  a  weak  and  scolding  hinge. 
Stuck;    and  he  clamored  from  a  casement,   'Run,' 
To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below, 
'Run,   Katie!'     Katie  never  ran:    she  moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine  bowers, 
A  little  fluttered,   with  her  eyelids  down, 
Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a  boon. 

"What  was  it?    less  of   sentiment  than  sense 
Had  Katie;    not  illiterate;    neither  one 
Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of   fictive'  tears, 
And  nursed  by  mealy-mouthed  philanthropies, 
Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the  Deed. 

"She  told  me.    She  and  James  had  quarrelled.  Why? 
What  cause  of   quarrel?     None,  she  said,   no  cause: 

80 


318  TENNYSON. 

James  had  no  cause  :    but  wlien  I  prest  the  cause, 
I  learnt  that  James  had  flickering  jealousies 
Which  angered  her.     Who  angered  James  ?  I  said. 
But  Katie  snatched  her  eyes  at  once  from  mine, 
And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed  foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard's  jDentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaimed,  in  flushing  silence,  till  I  asked 
If  James  were  coming.     'Coming  every  day,' 
She  answered,   '  ever  longing  to  explain, 
But  evermore  her  father  came  across 
With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke  him  short ; 
And  James  departed  vexed  with  him  and  her.' 
How  could  I  help  her?     'Would  I — was  it  wrong?' 
(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary  grace 
Of  sweet  seventeen  "subdued  me  ere  she  spoke) 
'0  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour. 
For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to  me? 
And  even  while  she  spoke,  T  saw  where  James 
Made  towards  us,  like  a  wader  in  the  surf, 
Beyond  the  brook,   waist-deep  in  meadow-sweet. 

"0  Katie,   what  I  suffered  for  your  sake! 
For  in  I  went,   and  called  old  Philip  out 
To  show  the  farm:    full   willingly  he  rose; 
Pie  led  me  tln-ouo;h  the  short  sweet-sraellinii-  lanes 
Of  his  wheat-suburb,  babbling,  as  he  went. 
He  praised  his  land,   his  horses,  his  macliines  ; 
He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,   his  hogs,  his  dogs; 
Ho  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  guinea-hens ; 
His  pigeons,   who  in  session  on   their  roofs 
'    Approved  him,   bowing  at  their  own  deserts: 


THE    BROOK.  319 

Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat  lie  took 

Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies,  naming  each, 

And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for  whom  they  were  : 

Then  crost  the  common  into  Darnley  chase 

To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.     In  copse  and  tern 

Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 

Then,  seated  on  a  serpent- rooted  beech, 

He  pointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and  said  : 

'That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the  Squire.' 

And  there  he  told  a  long,  long-winded  talc 

Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen  the  colt  at  grass, 

And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter  wished. 

And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 

To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price  he  asked, 

And  how  the  bailiff   swore  that  he  was  mad. 

But  he  stood  firm  ;    and  so  the  matter  liunsi ' 

He  gave  them  line  ;    and  five  days  after  that 

He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 

Who  then  and  there  had  offered  something  more. 

But  he  stood  -firm  ;    and  so  the  matter  huno; : 

He  knew  the  man  ;    the  colt  would  fetch  its  price ; 

He  gave  them  line  ;    and  how  by  chance  at  last 

(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he   forgot. 

The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of   May) 

He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm. 

And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew  him  in, 

And  there  he  mellowed  all  his  heart  with  ale, 

Until  they  closed  a  bargain,   hand  in  hand. 

"Then,   while  I  breathed  in  sight  of   haven,  he, 
Poor  fellow,   could  he  help  it  ?    recommenced. 
And  ran  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle, 
Wild  Will,   Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 


1:^20  TENNYSON. 

Reform,  White  Rose,   Bellerophon,  the  Jilt, 
Arbaces,  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest. 
Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose. 
And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ;    and  so 
We  turned  our  foreheads  from  the  falling  sun, 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice  as  long 
As  when  they  followed  us  from  Philii^'s  door. 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of   sweet  content 
Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things  well. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,   I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brarably  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come   and   men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go ;    and  these  are  gone, 
All  gone.     My  dearest  brother,  Edmund,  sleeps, 
Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic  spire, 


THE    BROOK.  321 

But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 

Of   Brunollesclii ;    sleeps  in  peace;    and  he, 

Poor  Philip,  of   all  his  lavish  waste  of  words 

Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb 

I  scraped  the  lichen  from  it :    Katie  walks 

By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 

Par  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other  stars. 

And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.     All  are  gone." 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a  stile 
In  the  long  heda-e,  and  rolling;  in  his  mind 

Co'  o 

Old  waifs  of   rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er  the  brook 

A  tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 

Mused,  and  was  mute.     On  a  sudden  a  low  breath 

Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the  hedge 

The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony  rings  ; 

And  he  looked  up.     There  stood  a  maiden  near, 

Waiting  to  pass.     In   much  amaze  he  stared 

On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,   and  on  hair 

In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,   when  the  shell 

Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within  : 

Then  wondering  asked  her,   "Are  you  from  the  farm?" — 

"Yes,"  answered  she. — "Pray  stay  a  little:  pardon  me; 

What  do  they  call  you?" — "Katie." — "That  were  strange. 

What    surname?"— "Willows."— "No!"— "That  is   my 

name." — 
"Indeed!"  and  here  he  looked  so  self-perplext. 
That  Katie  laughed,  and  laughing  blushed,  till  he 
Laughed  also,   but  as  one  before  he  wakes. 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  in  his  dream. 
Then  looking  at  her;    "Too  happy,  fresh  and  fair, 
Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world's  best  bloom, 

81 


322  TENNYSOK. 

To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your  name 
About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  ago." 

"Have  you  not  heard?"  said  Katie,  "we  came  back; 
We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  before. 
Am  I  so  Hke  her?    so  they  said  on  board. 
Sir,  if   you  knew  her  in  her  English  days. 
My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the  days 
That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come  with  me. 
My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest-field  : 
But  she — you  will  be  welcome — 0,  come  in  !" 


THE    CHARGE    OF   THE   LIGHT    BRIGADE. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of   Death 

Eode  the  six  hundred. 
"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
"  Charge  for  the  guns  !"  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of   Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !'" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  tlio'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 


THE    CHARGK   OK   THK    LIGHT    JUUGADE.  323 


Into  the  valley  of  .Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of   them, 
Cannon  to  left  of   them, 
Cannon  in  fi'ont  of   them 

Volleyed  and  thundered  ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death. 
Into  the  mouth  of   Hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


>24  TENNYSOK. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of   them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of   Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
0  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred ! 


PRAED. 


THE   BELLE   OF   THE   BALL. 


Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 
Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty. 


82 


325 


326  PEAED. 

Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 
Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty. 

Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joy 
Was  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly — 

In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy — 
I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  the  county  ball ; 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle. 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  set  young  hearts  romancing : 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 

And  when  she  danced — 0  Heaven  !    her  dancing. 

Dark  was  her  hair ;    her  hand  was  white ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender ; 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 
I  thougfht  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle, 

And  wondered  where  she  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers, 

Of  Southey's  prose  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets, 
Of  daggers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles  or  the  last  new  bonnets ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock — 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle ; 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  liave  tliought  they  murmured  Little. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL.  327 

Through  aunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  for  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed ;   I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling : 
My  father  frowned ;   but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean, 

Rich,  fat  and  rather  apoplectic  ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen, 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic  ; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty  ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer. 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three-per-cents,  " 

And  mortgages  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds  and  tithes  and  rents, 

Oh,  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks, 

Such  wealth,   such  honors,   Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  Muses. 

She  sketched ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach. 
Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading : 

She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading : 

She  warbled  Handel ;   it  was  grand — - 
She  made  the  Catilina  jealous  : 


328  PKAED. 

She  touched  the  organ ;   I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home. 

Well  filled  with  all  an  album's  g-lories — 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories, 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Pierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter, 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leeboo, 

And  recipes  for  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshiped,  bored ; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  lier  dress  was  noted ; 
Her  poodle-dog  was  quite  adored ; 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  and  every  heart  was  glad 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished ; 
She  frowned,  and  every  look  was  sad 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolished. 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun — 

T  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in   it ; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one, 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so. 

In  jArase  which  was  divinely  moulded ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded  ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves — 
A   little  glow,  a  little  shiver, 


Till''.    HKLLK    OK    THK    HAl.L.  329 

A  rosebud  and  a,  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "Fly  Not  Yet,"   upon  the  river; 

Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 
Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted ; 

A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows,  and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted :    months  and  years  rolled  by  ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after. 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh. 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room  belle. 

But  only  Mrs. — Something — Rogers! 

83 


MACK  AY. 


r„. .,»■],  I<  n,-l 


TELL    ME.    YE    WINGED   WINDS. 

Tell  me,  ye  winu-fed  winds, 

That  round  my  pathway  roar, 
l)o  ye  not  know  some  spot 

Where  mortals  weep  no  more  ? 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell. 
Some  valley  in  the  West, 
Where,  free  fi'om  toil  and   |iain, 
The  weary  soul  may  rest? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low, 
And  sitrhod   for  pity  as  it  answered,    "  No," 


TKLL    Ml-;,    YK    WINGED    AAMXO.S.  331 

Tell  nic,  tliou  mighty  deep, 

Whose  billows  round  nw  play, 
Know'st  thou  some  favored  spot, 

Some  island  far  away. 
Where  weary  nian  may  find 

The  bliss  for  which  he  sighs — 
Wliere  sorrow  never  lives, 

And  fi'iendship  never  dies? 
The  loud  waves,   rolling  in  perpetual  How, 
Stopped  for  a  while,  and  sighed  to  answer,   "No." 

And  thou,  serenest  moon. 

That  with  such  lovely  face 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth, 

Asleep  in  night's  embrace, 
Tell  me,   in  all  thy  round 

Hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot 
Where  miserable  man 

May  find  a  happier  lot? 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  woe, 
And  a  voice,  sweet  but  sad,  responded,   "  No." 

Tell   me,   my  secret  soul, 

Oh,  tell  me,   Hope  and  Faith, 
Is  there  no  resting-place 

Prom  sorrow,  sin  and  death? 
Is  there  no  happy  spot 

Where  mortals  may  be  blessed, 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm, 
And  weariness  a  rest? 
Faith,  Hope  and  Love,  best  boons  to  mortals  given. 
Waved   their  bright  wings   and   whispered,   "  Yes,   in 
heaven  !  ' 


332  MACKAY. 


WHAT   MIGHT   BE   DONE. 

What  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise, 
What  glorious  deeds,  my  suffering  brother, 

Would  they  unite 

In  love  and  right, 
And  cease  their  scorn  of  one  another ! 

Oppression's  heart  might  be  imbued 

With  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness; 

And  knowledge  pour, 

From  shore  to  shore, 

Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  blindness. 

All  slavery,  warfare,  lies  and  wrongs, 
All  vice  and  crime,  might  die  together ; 

And  wine  and  corn, 

To  each  man  born. 
Be  free  as  warmth   in  summer  weathor. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod, 
The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow, 

Might  stand  erect 

In  self-respect, 
And  share  the  teeming  world  to-morrow. 

What  might  be  done?     This  might  be  done. 
And  more  than  this,  my  suffering  brother- 
More  than  the  tongue 
E'er  said  or  sung — 
If   men  were  wise  and  loved  each  otlior. 


PROCTER. 


A   PETITION   TO   TIME. 


Touch  us  gently,  time ! 

Tjpt  lis  glide  adown  thy  stream 

84 


S33 


334  PROCTER. 

Gently,  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream. 
Humlole  voyagers  are  we, 
Husband,   wife  and  children  three. 
(One  is  lost — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead !) 

Touch  us  gently,  time  ! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings ; 
Our  ambition,  oui'  content. 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we 
O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime ; 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  time  ! 


THE   HUNTER'S   SONG. 


Rise  !     Sleep  no  more  !     'Tis  a  noble  morn, 

The  dew  hangs  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 

yVnd  the  fi-ost  shruiks  back,  like  a  beaten  hound, 

Under  the  steaming,  steaming  gronml. 

Behold,  where  the  l^illowy  clouds  flow  by, 

And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky  ! 

Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady.     So,  ho ! 

I'm  gone  like  a  dart  fi-om  the  Tartar's  bow. 

Hark,  hark!      Who  calleth  the  maiden  Morn 

From  her  sleep  in  the  woods  and  the  stubble  cornf 

The  horn,  the  horn! 
The  merry,  sweet  ring  of  the  hunter's  horn. 


riiK  ituhter's  song.  335 

Now,  tlirougli  the   copse  where  the  fox  is  rouiRl, 
And  over  the  streani  at  a  mighty  Ijound, 
And  over  the  higii  lands,  and  over  the  low, 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go  ! 
Away  ! — as  a  liawk  flies  full  at  his  pi-ey, 
So  fiieth  the  hunter,  away, — away  ! 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of   sun, 
AVhen  the  red  fox  dies,  and — the  day  is  ilone  ! 
Hark,  hark  ! —  What  sound  on  iJie  wind  is  borne  ? 
'  Tis  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter  s  horn  / 

The  horn, — the  horn! 
The  merry,  hold  voice  of  the  hicnter's  horn ! 

Sound  !     Sound  the  horn  !     To  the  liunter  good 
What's  the  gully  deep  or  the  roaring  flood? 
Right  over  he  bounds,  as  the  wild  stag  bounds. 
At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
Oh,  what  dehght  can  a  mortal  lack. 
When  he  once  is  tirni  on  his  horse's  back, 
With  his  stirrups  short,  and  his  snaffle  strong. 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning  song? 
Hark,   hark, — Noiv  home  and  dream  till  niorn 
Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound,  of  the  hunter'. <<  horn! 

Tlie  liorn, — tlie  liorn  ! 
Oh,  the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  Jmnters  Iwrn ! 


LOVER. 

THE  FOUK- LEAVED  SHAMROCK. 

A  four-leaved  Shamrock  is  of  such  rarity  that  it  is  supposed  to  endue  the 
finder  with  magic  power. 

I'll  seek  a  four-leaved  shamrock  in  all  the  fairy  dells, 
And  if   I  Hnd  the   charmed  leaves,   oh,   how   I'll   weave 

my  spells ! 
I  would  not  waste   my  magic   might  on  diamond,  pearl, 

or  gold. 
For  treasure  tires  the  weary  sense, — such  triumph  is  but 

cold; 
But  I   would  play  th'  enchanter's   part,   in   casting   bliss 

around, — 
Oh !    not  a  tear,   nor   aching  heart,  should   in   the   world 

be  found. 

To  worth  I  would  give  honor! — I'd  dry  the  mourner'.s  tears. 
And  to  the  pallid  lip  recall  the  smile  of  happier  years, 
And   liearts  that  had  been   long    estranged,   and   friends 

that  had  grown  cold, 
Should  meet  again — like  parted  streams — and  mingle  as 

of   old!  . 

Oh  !  thus  I'd  play  th'  enchanter's  part,  thus  scatter  bliss 

around, 
And   not  a  tear,  nor  nching  heart,   should   in   the   world 

be  found  ! 

Th(^  heart  that  liad  been  mourning  o'er  vanished  dreams 

of   love. 

Should  see  them  all  returning,  like  Noah's  faifhliil  dove; 
3sr, 


DERMOT    O'dOWD.  "  337 

And   Hope   should   launcli  her  blessed  bark   on  Sorrow's 

dark'ning  sea, 
And    Mis'iy's    children    have    an    Ark,    and    saved    from 

sinking  be. 
Oil !  thus  I'd  play  th'  enchanter's  part,  thus  scatter  bliss 

around, 
And   not  a  tear,   nor  aching  heart,   should   in  the   world 

be  found ! 


DERMOT   O'DOWD. 


When  Dermot  O'Dowd  coorted  Molly  M'Can, 

They  were  sweet  as  the  honey  and  soft  as  the  down, 
But  when  they  were  wed  they  began  to  find  out 
That    Dermot    could    storm    and    that    Molly    could 
frown ; 
They    would    neither   give    in — so    the    neighbors    gave 
out — 
Both  were  hot,  till  a  coldness  came  over  the  two. 
And  Molly  would  flusther,  and  Dermot  would  blusther. 
Stamp  holes  in  the  flure,  and  cry  out,  "  Wirrasthru  ! 
Oh  murther !    I'm  married, 
I  wish  I  had  tarried ; 
I'm  sleepless  and  speechless — no  woi'd  can  I  say, 
My  bed  is  no  use, 
I'll  give  back  to  the  goose 
The  feathers  I  plucked  on  last  Michaelmas  day." 

"Ah!"  says  Molly,  "you  once  used  to  call  me  a  bird." 
"  Faix,  you're  ready  enough  still  to  fly  out,"  says  he. 
"  You  said  then  my  eyes  were  as  bright  as  the  skies. 
And  my  lips  like  the  rose — now  no  longer  like  me." 

85 


338 


LOVEK. 


Says  Dormot,  "  Your  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  morn, 
But  your  brow  is  as  black  as  a  big  thunder-cloud ; 

If  your  lip  is  a  rose,  sure  your  tongue  is  a  thorn, 
That  sticks  in  the  heart  of   poor  Dermot  O'Dowd." 


Says  Molly,  "You  once  said  my  voice  was  a  thrush, 
But  now  it's  a  rusty  ould  hinge  with  a  creak." 

Says  Derraot,  "  You  called  me  a  duck  when  I  coorted. 
But  now  I'm  a  goose  every  day  in  the  week. 


1    LEAVE    YOU    TO    GUESS.  339 

But  all   husbands  are  geese,  though   our  pride   it  may 
shock ; 
From  the  hrst  'twas  ordained  so  by  Nature,  I  fear; 
Ould  Adam  liimsclf   was  the  first  o'  the  flock. 

And    Eve,   with    her    apple    sAuce,   cooked   him,    my 
dear." 


I   LEAVE   YOU   TO   GUESS. 

There's  a  lad  that  I  know ;  and  1  know  that  he 

Speaks  softly  to  me. 

The  cuslda-ina-chree. 
He's  the  pride  of   my  heart,  and  he  loves  me  well, 
But  who  the  lad  is, — I'm  not  going  to  tell. 

He's  as  straight  as  a  rush,  and  as  bright  as  the  stream 

That  around  it  doth  gleam. 

Oh !    of   him  how  I  dream ; 
I'm  as  high  as  his  shoulder — -the  way  that  I  know 
Is,  he  caught  me  one  day,  just  my  measure  to  show. 

He  whispered  a  question  one  day  in  my  ear ; 

When  he  breathed  it, — oh  dear ! 

How  I  ttembled  wnth  fear ! 
What  the  question  he  ask'd  was,  I  need  not  confess. 
But  the  answer  I  gave  to  the  question  was — "  Yes." 

His  eyes  they  are  bright,  and  they  looked  po  kind 

When   I  was   iiicliiu'd 

To  speak   my  mind ; 
And  his  ]:)reath  is  so  sweet — oh,  the  rose's  is  less, 
And  how  I  found  it  out, — why,  I  leave  you  to  guess. 


SWAIN. 


VOICES. 


A  LOVER  of  the  hills  and  lakes  am  I, 
And  of   the  Spirit  that  made  them  and  me, 
And  therefore  do  I  love  my  brother  man, 
Striving  with  oracles  from  Rydal  mount, 
And  prophecies  from  grave  Winandermere, 
To  lead  him  so  to  link  his  days  and  years. 
That  life  continuous  and  integral 
Might  flow,  as  John,  in  the  Apocalypse, 
Beheld  the  river  flow  from  God's  white  thi-nm' 

311) 


voicKs.  34 1 

Reverence,  Humility,  Religion,  Love 

And  Kingliness  ecclesiastical, 

With  natural  sanctities  of  time  and  place, 

I  preach  and  I  uphold.      Alone  I  stand, 

Survivor  sole  of   my  companions  dear. 

On  Life's  high  mountain-top,  whence  I  -  behold 

Suns  yet  unrisen,  manifest  in  clouds 

Of   purple  light,  and  light  incarnadine. 

Light,  golden  and  blood-radiant,  sprinkling  space. 

As  Moses,  on  the  hill  of   Pisgah,  saw 

Broad  lands,  tho'  disinherited  of   them, 

So,  underneath  the  morning  red,  I  see 

The  splendors  that  shall  come,  and  die  content. 


BROWNING. 

INCIDENT   OF   THE    FRENCH   CAMP. 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  mv  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A   vidor  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;    nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off   there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself   erect 
Just  by  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect, 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through). 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

342 


INCIDENT    OF   TllK    KRENCH    CAMP. 


343 


''  Well,"   cried  he,   "  emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon ! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market-place. 

And  you'll  be  tliere  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!"      The  chief's  eye  flashed;   his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed ;    but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
"You're  wounded!"      "Nay,"   his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said, 
"I'm    killed,    sire!"      And,  his  chief   beside, 
Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


SWINBURNE. 


A   LEAVE-TAKING. 


Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs,  she  will  not  hear. 
Let  us  go  hence  together  without  fear ; 
Keep  silence  now,  for  singing-time  is  over. 
And  over  all  old  things  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her. 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear. 
She  would  not  hear. 


:'.4-l 


A   LEAVE-TAKING.  345 

Let  US  rise  up  and  part ;    she  will   not  know. 
Let  us  go  seaward  as  the  great  winds  go, 
Full  of   blown  sand  and  foam ;    what  help  is  here  ? 
There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  ai'e  so, 
And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear. 
And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to  show, 
She  would  not  know. 

Let  us  go  home  and  hence  ;    she  will  not  weep. 
We  gave  love  many  dreams  and  days  to  keep, 
Flowers  without  scent,  and  fi'uits  that  would  not  grow, 
Saying,   "  If   thou  wilt,  thrust  in  thy  sickle  and  reap." 
All  is  reaped  now  ;    no  grass  is  left  to  mow  ; 
And  we  that  sowed,  though  all  we  fell  on  sleep, 
She  would  not  weep. 

Let  us  go  hence  and  rest ;    she  will  not  love. 
She  shall  not  hear  us  ii   we  sing  hereof. 
Nor  see  love's  ways,   how  sore  they  are  and  steep. 
Come  hence,  let  be,   lie  still  ;    it  is  enough. 
Love  is  a  barren  sea,  bitter  and  deep ; 
And  though  she  saw  all  heaven  in  flower  above. 
She  would  not  love. 

Let  us  give  up,  go  down ;    she  will  not  care. 
Though  all  the  stars  made  gold  of   all  the  air, . 
And  the  sea  moving  saw  before  it  move 
One  moon-flower  making  all  the  foain-flowers  fair, 
Though  all  those  waves  went  over  us,  and  drove 
Deep  down  the  stifling  lips    and    drowning  hair. 
She  would  not  care. 

87 


346  SWINBURNE. 

Let  us  go  hence,  go  lience ;    she  will  not  see. 

Sino-  all  once  more  together ;    surely,   she, 

She  too,  remembering  days  and  words  that  were, 

AVill  turn  a  little  toward  us  sighino;  ■    but  we, 

We  are  hence,  we  are  crone,  as  though  we  had  not  been 

there. 
Nay,  and  though  all  men  seeing  had  pity  on  me, 
She  would  not  see. 


A   CHEISTMAS   CAEOL.* 

Three  damsels  in  the  queen's  chamber. 
The  queen's  mouth  was  most  fair ; 
She  spake  a  word  of   God's  mother 
As  the  combs  went  in  her  hair. 
Mary  that  is  of  might, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  sight. 

They  held  the  gold  combs  out  fi'om  her, 

A  span's  length  off  her  head ; 
She  sang  this  song  of   God's  mother 
And  of  her  bearing-bed. 

Mary  most  full  of  grace, 
Bring  US  to  thy  Son's  face. 

When  she  sat  at  Joseph's  hand. 

She  looked  against  her  side  ; 
And  either  way  fi-om  the  short  silk  band 
Her  girdle  was  all  wried. 

Mary  that  all  good  may 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  way. 

*  Suggested  hy  n  drawing  of  Mr.  D.  Q.  Rosetti's. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL.  347 

Mary  had  three  women  for  her  bed, 
The  twain  were  maidens  clean  ; 
The  first  of  them  had  white  and  red. 
The  tliird  had  riven  green. 
Mary  that  is  so  sweet, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  feet. 

S]je  had  three  women  for  her  hair, 

Two  were  gloved  soft '  and  shod  ; 
The  thii'd   had  feet  and  fingers  bare ; 
She  was  the  likest  God. 

Mary  that  wieldeth  land, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  hand. 

She  had  three  women  for  her  ease, 
The  twain  were  good  women  ; 
The  first  two  were  the  two  Maries, 
The  third  was  Magdalen. 
Mary  that  perfect  is. 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  kiss. 

Joseph  had  three  workmen  in  his  stall. 

To  serve   him  well  upon ; 
The  first  of  them  were  Peter  and  Paul, 
Tlie  third  of   them  was  John. 
Mary,  God's  handmaiden, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  ken. 

"  If   your  child  be  none  other  man's. 
But  if  it  be  very  mine. 


348  SWINBURNE. 

The  bedstead  shall  be  gold  two  spans, 
The  bedfoot  silver  fine." 

]\lary  that  made  God  mirth, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  birth. 

"  If   the  child  be  some  other  man's, 
And  if  it  be  none  of  mine, 
The  manger  shall  be  straw  two  spans, 
Betwixen  kine  and  hine." 

Alary  that  made  sin  cease, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  peace. 

Christ  was  born  upon  this  wise. 

It  fell  on  such  a  nio-ht, 

Neither  witii  sounds  of  j^salteries. 

Nor  with  fire  for  light. 

Mary  that  is  God's  spouse, 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  house. 

The  star  came  out  upon  the  east 

With  a  great  sound  and  sweet : 
Kings  gave  gold  to  make  him  feast 
And  myrrh  for  him  to  eat. 

Mary,  of   thy  sweet  mood. 
Bring  us  to  thy  Son's  good. 

He  hud  two  handmaids  at  his  head, 

One  handmaid  at  his  feet ; 
The  twain  of   them  were  i'air  and  red. 
The  third  one  was  right  sweet. 
Mary  that  is  most  wise. 
Bring  us  to  thy  Sou's  eyes.      Amen. 


MORRIS. 


SEPTEMBER. 


0  COME  at  last,  to  whom  the  spring-tide's  hope 
Looked  for  through  bfossoms,  what  hast  thou  for  me? 


88 


349 


350  MORRIS. 

Greeu  grows  the  grass  upon  the  dewy  slope 
Beneath  thy  gold-hung,  gray-leaved  apple  tree 
]\Ioveless,  e'en  as  the  autumn  fain   would  be 
That  shades  its  sad  eyes  from  the  rising  sun 
And  weeps  at  eve  because  the  day  is  done. 

What  vision  wilt  thou  give  me,  autumn  morn, 
To  make  thy  pensive  sweetness  more  complete? 
What  tale,  ne'er  to  be  told,  of  folk  unborn? 
What  images  of  gray-clad  damsels  sweet 
Shall  cross  thy  sward  with  dainty  noiseless  feet? 
What  nameless  shamefast  longings  made  alive, 
Soft-eyed  September,  will  thy  sad  heart  give? 

]jOok  long,  O  longing  eyes,  and  look  in  vain  ! 
Strain  idly,  aching  heart,  and  yet  be  wise, 
And  hope  no  more  for  things  to  come  again 
That  thou  beheldest  once  with  careless  eyes ! 
Like  a  new-wakened  man  thou  art,  who  tries 
To  dream  again  the  dream  that  made  him  glad 
When  in  his  arms  his  l6ving  love  he  had. 


OCTOBER. 

0  LOVE,  turn  ii'om  the  unchanging  sea,  and  gaze 
Down  these  gray  slopes  upon  the  year  grown  old, 
A-dying  mid  the  autumn-scented  haze 
That  hangeth  o'er  the  hollow  in  the  wold, 
Where  the  wind-bitten  ancient  elms  infold 
Gray  church,  long  barn,  orchard  and  red-roofed  stead, 
Wrought  in  dead  days  for  men  a  long  while  dead. 


NOVEMBER.  ?>51 

Come  down,  0  love  ;   may  not  our  liands  still  meet, 
Since  still  wo  live  to-day,   forgetting  June, 
Forgetting  May,  deeming  October  sweet — 
— 0  hearken,  hearken  !    through  the  afternoon, 
The  gray  tower  sings  a  strange  old  tinkling  tune  ! 
Sweet,  sweet,  and  sad,  the  toiling  year's  last  breath, 
Too  satiate  of   life  to  strive  with  death. 

And  we  too — will  it  not  be  soft  and  kind. 
That  rest  fi'om  life,  from  patience  and  from  pain. 
That  rest  from  bliss  we  know  not  when  we  find, 
That  rest  from  Love  which  ne'er  the  end  can  rain  ? — 
— Hark,  how  the  tunc  swells,  that  erewhile  did  wane  ! 
Loolv  up,   love  ! — ah,   cling  close  and  never  move  1 
How  can  I  have  enough  of   life  and  love ",' 


NOVEMBER. 


Are  thine  eyes  weary  ?    is  thy  heart  too  sick 
To  struggle  any  more  with  doubt  and  thought. 
Whose  formless  veil  draws  darkening  now  and  thick 
Across  thee,  e'en  as  smoke-tinged  mist-wreaths  brought 
Down  a  fair  dale  to  make  it  blind  and  naught? 
Art  thou  so  weary  that  no  world  there  seems 
Beyond  these  four  walls,  hung  with  pain  and  dreams  ? 

Look  out  upon  the  real  world,   where  the  moon. 
Halfway  'tvvixt  root  and  crown  of   tliese  high  trees, 
Turns  the  dead  midnight  into  dreamy  noon, 
Silent  and  full  of   wonders,  for  the  breeze 


352  MOERIS. 

Died  at  the  sunset,  and  no  images, 

No  hopes  of  day,  are  left  in  sky  or  earth — 

Is  it  not  fair,  and  of   most  wondrous  worth  ? 

Yea,  I  have  looked  and  seen  November  there ; 
The  changeless  seal  of   change  it  seemed  to  be, 
Fair  death  of  things  that,  living  once,  were  fair; 
Bright  sign  of   loneliness  too  great  for  me. 
Strange  image  of  the  dread  eternity, 
In  whose  void  patience  how  can  these  have  part. 
These  outstretched  feverish  hands,  this  restless  heart? 


MEREDITH. 


A  FANCY. 


How  sweet  were  life, — this  life,  if  we 
(My  love  and  I)  might  dwell  together 

Here  beyond  the  summer  sea. 

In  the  heart  of  summer  weather ! 


r^.~--y.~ 


With   pomegranates  on  the  bough, 
And  with  lilies  in  the  bower ; 

And  a  sight  of   distant  snow, 
Rosy  in  the  sunset  hour. 


89 


353 


354  MEREDITH. 

And  a  little  house, — no  more 

In  state  that  suits  two  quiet  lovers ; 

And  a  woodbine  round  the  door, 

Where  the  swallow  builds  and  hovers  ; 

With  a  silver  sickle  moon 

O'er  hot  gardens  red  with  roses ; 

And  a  window  wide,  in  June 

For  serenades  when  evening  closes ; 

In  a  chamber  cool  and  simple, 

Trellised  light  from  roof   to  basement ; 

And  a  summer  wind  to  dimple 

The  white  curtain  at  the  casement ; 

Where,  if  we  at  midnight  wake, 
A  green  acacia  tree  shall  quiver 

In  the  moonlight,  o'er  some  lake, 

Where  nightingales  sing  songs  for  ever. 

With  a  pine-wood  dark  in  sight, 
And  a  bean-field  climbing  to  us, 

To  make  odors  faint  at  night 

Where  we  roam  with  none  to  view  us. 

And  a  convent  on  the  lull. 

Through  its  light  green  olives  peeping 
In  clear  sunlight,  and  so  still, 

All  the  nuns,  you'd  say,  were  sleeping. 

Seas  at  distance,  seen  beneath 
Grated  garden-wildernesses ; — 

Not  so  far  but  what  their  breath 

At  eve  may  fon  my  darling's  tresses. 


A   FANCY.  .  355 

A  piano,  soft  in  sound, 

To  make  music  when  speech  wanders, 
Poets  reverently  bound, 

.O'er  whose  pages  rapture  ponders. 

Canvas,  brushes,  hues,  to  catch 

Fleeting  forms  in  vale  or  mountain : 

And  an  evening  star  to  watch 

When  all's  still,  save  one  sweet  fountain. 

Ah  !    I  idle  time  awa.y 

With  impossible  fond  fancies ! 
For  a  lover  lives  all  day 

In  a  land  of   lone  romances. 

But  the  hot  light  o'er  the  city 

Drops — and  see !    on  fire  departs. 
And  the  night  comes  down  in  pity 

To  the  longing  of   our  hearts. 

Bind  thy  golden  hair  fi'om  falling, 

0  my  love,  my  one,  my  own  ! 
'Tis  for  thee  the  cuckoo's  calling 

With  a  note  of  tenderei"  tone. 

Up  the  hillside,  near  and  nearer, 

Through  the  vine,  the  corn,  the  flowers, 

Till  the  very  air  grows  dearer, 
Neighboring  our  pleasant  bowers. 

Now  I  pass  the  last  Podere  : 

There,  the  city  lies  behind  me. 
See  her  fluttering  like  a  fairy 

O'er  the  happy  grass  to  find  me  ! 


INGELOW. 


HIGH   TIDE   ON   THE   COAST   OF   LINCOLNSHIEE. 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  rau  by  two,  by  three ; 
"Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  hee. 
"  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  0  Boston  bells ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells, 

Play  uppe  'The  Brides  of  Enderby.'  " 


Men  say  it  was  a  "stolen  tyde  " — 
The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all ; 


35C 


HIGH    TIDE   ON   THE   COAST    OF   LINCOLNSHIRE.        357 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 
And  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 
The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied, 

By  millions  crouched  on  tlio  old  sea-wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore ; 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes  : 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore. 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"  Cusha  !   Cusha!   Cusha!"  calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 

Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"Cusha!   Cusha!"  all  along; 

Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floWeth, 
Floweth,  floweth. 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 

Faintly  came  her  milking  song — 

"Cusha!   Cusha!   Cusha!"  calling, 
"For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falhng; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot ;   come  uppe,  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 
HoUow,  hollow ; 

90 


358  INGELOW. 

Come  uppe,  Jetty !   rise  and  follow, 

From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ;- 

Gome  uppe,  Whitefoot !   come  uppe,  '  Lightfoot, 

Come  uppe.  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 

If  it  be  long — ay,  long  ago — 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 

Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong ; 

And  all  the.  aire,  it  seemeth  mee. 

Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 

That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

AUe  fi-esh  the  level  pasture  lay. 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene. 

Save  where,  full  fyve  good  miles  away, 
The  steeple  towelled  from  out  the  greeue ; 

And  lo !   the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country-side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds,  where  their  sedges  are, 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath ; 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre. 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free, 
The  "Brides  of  Mavis  Miderby." 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky. 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 


HIGH-TIDE    ON    THE    COAST   OF    LINCOLNSHIRE.         359 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 
They  sayde,   "And  why  should  this  thing  be? 
What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea? 
They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderhy. 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 

Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down, — 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne  ; 
But  while  the  west  Ijin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee. 
Why  ring  'The  Brides  of  Enderl >y  '  ?" 

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !   my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main  ; 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on. 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 
"Ehzabeth!   Ehzabeth !" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"The  olde  sea-wall"  (he  cryed)  "is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace. 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"God  save  you,  mother!"  straight  he  sayth ; 
"Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 

"  Good  sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  her  way, 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long; 


360        ^  INGELOW. 

And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play, 

Afar  I  heard  lier  milking-song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "Ho,  Enderby  f" 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  JEndei^by." 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For,  lo  !   along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud, — 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis,  backward  pressed. 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine ; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre' s  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout,- 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about, — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast,  the  eygre  drave, 
The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat 

Before  a  shallow  seething;  wave 
Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet: 

The  feet  liad  hardly  time  to  flee 

Before  it  brake  against  the  knee. 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night; 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by ; 


HIGH    TIDE    ON    THE    COAST   OF   LINCOLNSHIRE.        361 

I  marked  tlie  lofty  beacon  liglit 

Stream  from  ilio  church  tower,  red  and  higl:  — 
A  huid  mark,  and  (h'oad  to  sec; 
And  awsome  b(dls  they  were  to  nice, 
That  in   the  dark  rang  " Enderhi/." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed ; 

And  I, — my  sonne  was  at  my  side. 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 
'■  0  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  ! 

0  lost  1   my  love,  Elizabeth  !" 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  cUdst,  my  daughter  deare ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  fiotv  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass. 
That  ehhe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea, — 

A  fatal  chhc  and  fiow,  alas  1 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee ; 

But  each  will  mourne  his  own  (she  sayth). 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall   never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedv  T^indis  shore, 

91 


362  INGELOW. 

"Cusha!   Cusha !   Gusha!"   calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 

I  sliall  never  liear  her  song, 
"Cusha!   Cusha!"  all  along 

Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 
Goeth,   floweth  ; 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 

Where  the  water,  winding  down. 

Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver ; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy,  lonesome  shore ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,   cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot ;   come  uppe,   Lightfoot  ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Lightfoot ;    rise  and  follow ; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head; 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,   to  the  milking-shed  !" 


BRYANT. 


A   FOREST   HYMN. 


The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof   above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,   to  gather  and  roll  back 


363 


364  BRYANT. 

The  so'-md  of  anthems ;    in  the  darkUng  wood, 

Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     Foi'  his  simple  heart 

Micrht  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of   the  place, 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of   boundless  power 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,   why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,   neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of   this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,   if   it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,   thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Ui)ou  the  naked  eartli,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of   trees.     They,   in  tlie  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  the  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century -living  crow. 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 


A    FOREST    HYMN.  365 

Communion  with  his  Maker.     These  dim  vaults, 

These  winding  aisles,  of   human  pomp  or  pride 

Report  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show 

The  boast  of   our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 

Of  thy  fiiir  works.     But  thou  art  here — thou  fill'st 

The  solitude.     Tliou  art  in  the  soft  winds 

That  run  along  the  summit  of   these  trees 

In  music  ;    thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath 

That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place 

Comes,   scarcely  felt ;    the  barkv  trunks,  the  ground. 

The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship ;    nature,  here, 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love. 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;    and  yon  clear  spring,  that,   midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  wandering  steeps  the  roots 

Of   half   the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades. 

Of   thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace. 

Are  here  to  speak  of   thee.     This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep. 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,   such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of   the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  srnile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

92 


366  BKYANT. 

A.n  emanation  of   the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of   the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  nie  when  -I  think 
Of   the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of   thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The. lesson  of   thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !    all  grow  old  and  die — but  see  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
Li  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  than  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of   earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of   untold  centuries, 
■^rhe  freshness  of   her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his'  arch  enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  tlu'one — the  sepulchre. 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around   them; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 


THANATOPSIS.  367 

Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 

But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 

Retire,  and  in  thy  pr(!sence  reassure 

My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 

The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 

And  tremble,  and  are  still.     Oh,  God  !    when  thou 

Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 

The  heavens  with  faUing  thunderbolts,  or  {ill, 

With  all  the  waters  of   the  firmament, 

The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  u]:»roots  the  woods 

And  drowns  the  villages;    when,  at  thy  call, 

Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  hin:iself 

Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 

Its  cities — -who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 

Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of   thy  power, 

His"  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by '? 

Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of   thy  face 

Spare  me  and  mme,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 

Of   the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 

Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate. 

In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty. 

And  to  the  beautiful  order  of   thy  works 

Learn  to  conform  the  order  of   our  lives. 


THANATOPSIS. 


To  him  who  in  the  love  of   Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;    for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of   gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of   beauty,  and  she  glides 


368  BRYAKT. 

Into-  Ins  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy,   that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  awai'e.     When  thoughts 

Of   the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blis-ht 

O 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of   the  stern  agony,  and  shi-oud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of   air — - 

Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course ;    nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again. 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  sliare,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,   and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  king.«!, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of   ages  past, 


TIIANATOPSIS. 


369 


All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 


Stretching  in  '  pensive  quietness  between  ; 

The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green ;    and,  poured  round  all. 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
^  93  '^ 


370  BRYANT. 

The  planets,  all  the  uifinite  host  of   heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of   death. 

Through  the  still  lapse  of   ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 

Of   morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands. 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  vi^oods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are  there  : 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  wliat  if   thou  withdraw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 

His  favorite  phantom  ;    yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come, 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of   men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those,   who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,   which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in   the  silent  halls  of   death. 


THE    PAST.  371 

Thou  go  not,   like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE   PAST. 


Thou  unrelenting  Past! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dai'k  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of   thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth. 
Youth,  Manhood,  Age  that  draws  us  to  the  ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends — the  good — the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form — the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire  intense, 


372  BEYANT. 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain — thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back — nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown — to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith, — 

Love,  that  'midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame. 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 


THK    PAST. 


373 


They  have  not  perished — no  ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat, 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again  ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung. 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold. 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 


91 


%.., 


HALLECK. 

MAECO    BOZZAEIS. 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreamino-  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  supphance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power : 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of   a  conqueror ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring ; 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne — a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing. 

As  Eden's  garden-bii-d. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades. 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platsea's  day ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,   as  they. 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.  375 

All  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke  : 

That  bright  dream   was  his  l;ist ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"To  arms!    they  come!    the  Greek!    the  Greek!" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falHng  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,   with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaiis  cheer  his  band  : 
"Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of   your  sires  ; 

God — and  your  native  land  !" 


They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain  ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell. 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah. 

And  the  red  field  was  won  : 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of   sun. 


Come  to  the  bridal  chamber.   Death  ! 
Come  to  the  mother,   when  she  feels, 


376  HALLECK. 

For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake-shock,  the  ocean-storm, 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm. 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine : 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear. 
The  groan,   the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 

Of   agony,  are  thine. 


But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free. 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of   millions  yet  to  be. 
Gome,  when  his  task  of   fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crownino;  hour — -and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of   sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men  : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of   palm, 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.  377 

And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of   balm, 
Blew  o'er  the  Havtian  seas. 


Bozzaris  !    with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 

Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave. 
Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 
Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 

Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 

In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry. 
The  heartless  luxury  of   the  tomb  : 

But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 

Long-loved,  and  for  a  season  gone; 

For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed. 

Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 


95 


378  HALLECK. 

For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells : 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed ; 
Her  soldier,   closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,   when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years. 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears : 

And  she,  the  mother  of   thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief   she  will  not  speak, — 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, — 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, — • 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


WILLIS. 


THE   HEALING  OF   THE   DAUGHTEE   OF  JAIRDS. 


Freshly  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 
Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 


379 


380  WILLIS. 

Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.     She  had  lain 

Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance — 

Her  thin  pale  fingcrr   clasped  within  the  hand 

Of  the  heart-broken  Kuler,  anu  her  breast, 

Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 

The  shadow  of   a  leaf   lay  on  her  lips, 

And,  as  it  stirred  with  the  awakening  wind, 

The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 

And  her  slight  fingers  moved,  and  heavily 

She  turned  upon  her  pillow.     He  was  there — - 

The  same  loved,   tireless  watcher;  and  she  looked 

Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 

With  the  fast-falling  tears ;    and,   with  a  sigh 

Of  tremulous  weakness  murmuring  his  name. 

She  gently  drew  his  hand  upon  her  lips. 

And  kissed  it  as  she  wept.     The  old  man  sunk 

Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 

Of   the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face  ; 

And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 

Stirred  with  his  prayer,  but  the  sliglit  hand  he  held 

Had  ceased  its  pressure — and  he  could  not  liear. 

In  the  dead,  utter  silence,   that  a  breath 

Came  through  her  nostrils — and  her  temples  gave 

To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse — and  at  her  mouth 

He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 

Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 

Ached  with  its  deathly  stillness 

It  was  night — 

And  softly,  o'er  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 
Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 
Tipped  with  the  silver  sparkles  of   the  moon. 
The  breaking  waves  played  low  upon  the  beach 


HEALING    OK    THE    DACGHTER    OK    JAIllUS.  381 

Their  constant  music,   but  the  <air  beside 

Was  still  as  starliii;ht,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 

In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet, 

Seemed  like  some  just-born  harmony  in  the  aii-. 

Waked  by  the  power  of   wisdom.     On  a  rock, 

With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow. 

He  stood  and  taught  the  people.     At  his  feet 

Lay  his  small  scrip,  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 

And  staff — for  they   had  waited  by  the  sea 

Till  he  came  o'er  from  Gadarene,  and  prayed 

For  his  wont  teacliings  as  he  came  to  land. 

His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 

And  the  long  curls  from  off  his  shoulders  fell, 

As  he  leaned  forward  earnestly,  and  still 

The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep — 

And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty — 

And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mixed  with  power — 

Filled  them  with  love  and  wonder.     Suddenly, 

As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 

The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 

Jairus  THE  PtULER.      With  his  flowing  robe 

Gathered  in  haste  about  his  loins,   he  came, 

And  fixed  his  eyes  on  Jesus.     Closer  drew 

The  twelve  disciples  to  their  Master's  side  ; 

And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away. 

And  left  the  haughty  Ruler  in  the  midst 

Alone.     A  naoment  longer  on  the  face 

Of   the  meek  Nazarene  he  kept  his  gaze, 

And,   as  the  twelve  looked  on  him,   by  the  light 

Of   the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 

Steal  to  his  silver  beard ;    and,  drawing  nigh 

Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 

Of   his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  hands 


382  WILLIS. 

Pressed  it  upon  his  lips,  and  murmured  low, 
''Master!  my  daughter/" —     .... 

The  same  silvery  light. 

That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea, 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals, 
As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcomed  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.     All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of   their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of   moonlight,  slanting  to  the  marble  floor, 
Lay  like  a  spell  of   silence  in  the  rooms. 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.     With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair ;    but  ere  he  touched 
The  latchet,  fi'ora  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  Trouble  the  Master  not — -for  she  is  dead!" 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side, 
And  his  steps  faltered,  and  his  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance  ; — but  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
" 8he  is  not  dead — but  sleepeth." 

They  passed  in. 
The  spice-lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
Burned  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 
Curled  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtains  slumbered  in  their  folds — 
Not  even  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed, 
And  prayed  inaudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of   his  breath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     There  came 


HEALING   OF    TIII'l    DALTIUTKK    OK    JAIRUS.  383 

A  gradual  briglitness  o'er  his  calm,  sad  face; 
And,  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  moved 
The  silken  curtains  silently  apart. 
And  looked  upon  the  maiden. 

Like  a  form 
Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay — 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  bi'east, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands. 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life ; 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly-tinted  skin 
Ran  the  Hght  branches  of   the  azure  veins ; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay, 
Matching  the  arches  pencilled  on  her  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and,  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of   glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polished  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung, 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
" Maiden f  Arise!" — and  suddenly  a  flush 
Sliot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  throuffh  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran  ; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirred  in  the  linen  vesture  ;    and  she  clasped 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and,  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beainino;  countenance — akose  1 


384 


WILLIS. 


DEDICATION    HYMN. 


The  perfect  world  by  Adam  trod, 
Was  the  first  temple — built  by  God 
His  fiat  laid  the  corner-stone, 
And  heaved  its  pillars,  one  by  one. 


DEDICATION    HYMN.  385 

He  hung  its  starry  roof   ou  liigh — 
The  broad  ilhmitable  sky ; 
He  spread  its  pavement,  green  and  bricrht, 
And  curtained  it  witli  mornins  lidit. 

The  mountains  in  their  places  stood — 
The  sea — the  sky — and  "all  was  good;" 
And,  when  its  first  pure  praises  rang, 
The   "morning  stars  together  sang." 

Lord !    'tis  not  ours  to  make  the  sea 
And  earth  and  sky  a  house  for  thee; 
But  in  thy  sight  our  ofF'ring  stands — 
A  humbler  temple,   "made  with  hands." 


97 


LONGFELLOW. 


iijss#^»j^;':- 


THE   BUILDING   OF   THE   SHIP. 


"Build  me  straight,  0  worthy  Master! 

Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel. 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster. 

And  with   wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  1" 


386 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  387 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A  quiet  smile  played  around  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of   the  tide 

Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of   glee, 

He  answered,   "Ere  long  we  will  launch 

A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  staunch, 

As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea!" 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 

Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 

A  little  model  the  Master  wrought. 

Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 

What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ; 

That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 

The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 

To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  labored,   his  mind  ran  o'er 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 

And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of   all. 

Towered  the  great  Harry,  crank  and  tall. 

Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 

With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air. 

And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there. 

And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 

From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 


388  LONGFELLOW. 

Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  sakl  with  a  smile,   "Our  ship,  1  wis, 

Shall  be  of   another  form  than  this  !" 

It  was  of   another  form,  indeed ; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A  beautiful  and  gallant  craTt ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the   blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 

Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 

With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees. 

That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm. 

And  that  the  currents  of  joa^rted  seas, 

Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 

Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 

With  the  model  of  the  vessel. 
That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster. 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; 

Timber  of  chestnut,   and  elm,  and  oak, 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees ; 

Brought  from  regions  far  away. 

From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay. 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke ! 

Ah  !    what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of   toil 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  389 

One  tlioLight,  one  word,   can  set  in  motion  ! 
There's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 
But  every  ehmate,   every  soil, 
Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 
And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall  ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea. 

And  long  the  level  shadows  lay. 

As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 

Of   some  great,  airy  argosy. 

Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 

The  silent  architect,  the  sun. 

Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 

Ere  the  woj-k  of   man  was  yet  begun. 

Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 

A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 

Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meanins. 

Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  brolce 

In  ripples  on   the  pebbly  beach, 

Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth. 

The  old  man  and  the  Eery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in   whose  busy  brain 

Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 

Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again ; — 

The  fiery  youth,   who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of   his  dexterity. 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's   hand. 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 

What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

98 


390  LONGFELLOW. 

"Thus,"  said  he,   "will  we  build  this  ship! 
Lay  square  the  blocks  ujDon  the  slip, 
And  follow  well  this  plan  of   mine. 
Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  ; 
Of   all  that  is  unsound  beware ! 
For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 
To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 
Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  toErether  shall  combine. 

o 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 
And  the  Union  be  her  name  ! 
For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 
Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee!" 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside. 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of   pride. 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of   his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair. 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair. 

With  the  breath  of   morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 

Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 

Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach  ; 

But  he 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea  I 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command ! 


THE    BUILDING    OF    TIIK    SHIP. 


391 


It  is  the  lioavt,   and  not  the  bruin, 
That  to  the.  liighcst  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Par  exceedeth  all  the  rest ! 


Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 
Was  the   noble  task  begun. 


392  LONGFELLOW. 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard's  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 

Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 

With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side  ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of   oak  for  a  noble  ship 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 

The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 

Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  1 

And   when  the  hot,   long  day  was  o'er, 

The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 

Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 

And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 

Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill. 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 

Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 

Of  pirates  upon  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never"  came  back  again, 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life. 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife. 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

Than  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands. 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands. 

Where  the  tumbling  surf. 

O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 


THE    BUILDING    OK    THE    SHIP.  393 

Washes  the  feet  of   tlie  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  hcs  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf 

And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 

At  tbc  tales  of   that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 

With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 

And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  gleam 

From  the  bowl  of   his   pipe  would   awhile  illume 

The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom. 

And  thoughtful  faces,   as  in  a  dream  ; 

And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark, 

What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 

That  the  head  of   the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 

Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's   breast ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew. 

With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 

Btemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee. 

Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 

The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 

Till  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength. 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk  ! 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of   smoke,   upwreathing, 

Rose  from  the  boiling,   bubbling,  seething 

Caldron,  that  glowed. 

And  ovei-flowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 

99 


394  LONGFELLOW. 

And  amid  the  clamors 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  : — 

"Build  me  straight,   0  worthy  Master, 
Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel. 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster. 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle!" 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band. 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 

That,  like  a  thought,   should  have  control 

Over  the  movement  of   the  whole ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land. 

And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood. 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in   wood, 

With  robes  of   white,  that  far  behind 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of   old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  iVom  the  Master's  daughter ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 

'Twill  be  seen   by  the  rays  of   the  signal  light. 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of   some  phantom   bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  fiight, 


THE    BUILDING    OF    TIIK    SHIP.  395 

By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright ! 

Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 

Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 

Shrouds  and  stays 

Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago. 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of   Maine, 

When  upon  mountain  and  plain 

Lay  the  snow. 

They  fell, — those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 

'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 

The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,   winding  road 

Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 

To  be  shorn  of   their  streaming  hair, 

And,  naked  and  bare. 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 

Of   the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 

Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  for  evermore 

Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see  again 

And  everywhere 

The  slender,  graceful  spars 

Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  at  the  masthead. 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah  !    when  the  wanderer,   lonely,  friendless, 


396  LONGFELLOW. 


Ill  foreign  harbors  sliall  beliold 


That  flag  unrolled, 

'Twill  be  as  a  friendly  hand 

Stretched  out  from  his  nativo  land, 

Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and  endless  ! 


o 


All  is  finished  !    and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of   strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay. 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old. 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled. 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro. 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beatino;  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide. 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of   snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of   his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of   her  marriage  day. 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  397 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of   the  gray,   old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said. 

The  service  read, 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head ; 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 

Shakes  the  brown  hand  of   his  son. 

Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor — 

The  shepherd  of   that  wandering  flock, 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  ror'k — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 

Words  of   warning,   words  of   cheer. 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 

Of   the  sailor's  heart. 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs. 

All   its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 

All  those  secret  currents,   that  flow 

100 


)98  LONGFELLOW. 

With  such  resistless  undertow, 
And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 
'   The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 
Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he  :— 

"Like  imto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outwaixl  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around. 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of   the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink. 

As  if   we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !    it  is  not  the  sea. 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of   ocean. 

Ah  !    if   our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  sh'ill  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy,  and   not  of   fear!" 

Then   the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of   command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  399 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and   sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below. 

The  sound  of    hammers,   blow  on   blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  !    she  stirs  ! 

She  starts, — she  moves, — she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of   life  along  her  keel, 

And,   spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  Ocean's  arms! 

And  lo  !    from  the  assembled  crowd 
There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 
That  to  the  Ocean  seemed  to  say, — 
"Take  her,  0  bridegroom  old  and  gray, 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms. 
With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  !" 

How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  fair 

She  lies  within  those  arms,   that  press 

Her  form   with  many  a  soft  caress 

Of   tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  0  ship  ! 

Throuo-h  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  ! 

The  moistened  eye,   tlie  trembling  hp, 

Are  not  the  signs  of   doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the -sea  of   life, 

0  gentle,   loving,   trusting  wife, 

And  safe  from  all  adversity 

Upon  the  bosom  of   that  sea 

Thy  comings  and  tliy  goings  be  ! 

For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 

Prevail  o'er  angrv  wave  and  gust : 


400  LOKGFELLOW. 

And  in  tlie  wreck  of   noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  sm'vives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  0  Ship  of   State  ! 

Sail  on,   0  Union,  strong:  and  great ! 

Humanity,   with  all  its  fears, 

With  all  the  hopes  of   future  years, 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of   steel, 

Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 

What  anvils  rang,   what  liammers  beat. 

In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 

Were  shaped  the  anchors  of   thy  hope  ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

'Tis  of   the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 

'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 

In  spite  of   rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of   false  lights  on  the  shore. 

Sail  on,   nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea! 

Our  hearts,   our  hopes,  are  all   with  thee. 

Our  hearts,   our  hopes,   our  prayers,   our  tears, 

Our  faitli  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with   thee, — are  all   with  thee  ! 


THE    CASTLE    BY    THE    SEA. 


401 


THE   CASTLE  BY   THE   SEA. 

"Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

"And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 

And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

101 


402  LOJSGFELLOW. 

"Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing. 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

"The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean. 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme?" 

"The  winds  and  the  waves  of   ocean. 

They  rested  quietly ; 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles? 
And  the  golden  ci'own  of  pride? 

"Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun. 

Beaming  with  golden  hair?" 

"Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 
Without  the  crown  of   pride ; 

They  wore  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 
No  iiiaidcn  was  by  their  side  I" 


HOLMES. 


THE   OLD   MAN   DREAMS. 

0  FOE  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring! 
I'd  rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boy 

Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king ! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  do^yn  ! 


40a 


404  HOLMES. 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame ! 

— My  listenmg  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And  calmly  smiling,  said, 
"If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay. 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day?" 

— Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind ! 

Without  thee,  what  were  life? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind : 

I'll  take — my — precious — wife  ! 

— The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
"  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  husband  too !" 

— "And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 
Before  the  change  appears? 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years !" 

Why,  yes ;   for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I'll  take — my — girl — and — boys  ! 


THE  deacon's  masterpiece.  405 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  liis  pen, — 
"  Wliy  this  will  never  do ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  father  too!" 

And  so  I  laughed, — my  laughter  woke 

The  household  with  its  noise, — 
And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke. 

To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


THE   DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE: 

OR  THE   WONDERFUL   "  ONE-H  OSS-SHAY." 

A  LOGICAL  STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  oue-hoss-shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day. 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay. 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,— • 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that;  I  say? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  8ecundus  was  then  alive, — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  eartli  open  and  gulp  her  down, 


406  HOLMES. 

And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  witliout  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss-shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot, — • 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill. 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, — lurking  still. 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — • 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  xuear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 

With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  yeou,") 

He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 

'n'   the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'  ; 

It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn   break  daown 

— "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  " 't's  mighty  plain 

Tliut  the  wcakes'  place  mus'  stan  the  strain ; 

'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,   uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke, — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  fioor  and  sills  ; 
Fie  sent  lor  lancewood  to  make  tlie  thills  ; 


Tiuo  deacon's  masterpiece.  407 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straiglitest  trees ; 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  Hke  cheese, 

But  Lists  like  iron   for  things  like  these; 

The  liul)S  of  loo-s  from  the  "Settler's  ellum," — 

Last  of  its  timber, — they  couldn't  sell  'em. 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips. 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips. 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  hnchpin  too. 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thorouehbrace  bison-skin,   tliick  and  wide; 

O 

Boot,  top,   dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." — 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she'll  dew." 

Do  !    I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,   and  nothing  less! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray. 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  o-rand-children — where  were  they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss-shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen  hundred  ; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  Masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ; — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came; — 
Running  as  usual ;   much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive. 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 


408  HOLMES. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 


First  of  November, — the  Earthquake-day, — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss-shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay. 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 

There  couldn't  be, — for  the  Deacon's  art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 

That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 

And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 

And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 

And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 

And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 

111  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 


First  of  November,  'Fifty-five ! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-horse-shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup!''  said  the  parson. — Off  went  they. 


THE  deacon's  masteepiece.  409 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text, — 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

— First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock, — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock ! 

— What  do  you  think  the  parson  found. 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce. 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay. 
Logic  is  logic.      That's  all  I  say. 


POE. 

THE    BELLS. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 
Silver  bells — 
What  a  world  of   merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,   tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of   night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of   Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  I 
Through  the  balmy  air  of   night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune. 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,   while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon  ! 

410 


THE    BELLS.  411 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of   euphony  voluminously  wells  1 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !    how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of   the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of   the  bells,  bells,  bells,   bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of   the  bells  ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  of   terror,   now,  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright  1 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of   tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of   the  fire. 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit,   or  never. 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 


412  POE. 

On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells. 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,   bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of   the  bells  ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of   the  bells — ■ 
Iron  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels ! 
In  the  silence  of   the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of   their  tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone. 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 


THE    BELLS. 

They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  liuman — 

They  are  Ghouls  ; 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls, 
A  psean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  psean  of   the  bells ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  tune. 
In  a  sort  of   Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of   the  bells — 
Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of   Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of   the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rollino-  of   the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  tolling  of   the  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


104 


413 


414  POE. 


THE   HAUNTED   PALACE. 

In  the  greenest  of   our  valleys, 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace 

(Snow-white  palace)  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half   so  fair. 

Banners,  yellow,  glorious,  golden. 

On  its  roof   did  float  and  flow : 
(This,  all  this,   was  in  the  olden 

Time,  long  ago.) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied. 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically. 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law ;     • 
Round  about  a  throne,  whei'e,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene  !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 
Was  the  fair  palace-door, 


THE    HAUNTED    PALACE.  415 

Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkhng  evermore, 
A  troop  of  echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing. 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of   tlieir  Icing. 

But  evil  things,   in  robes  of   sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate ; 
(Ah  !    let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed. 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody ; 
While,  like  a  rapid,  ghastly  river, 

Through  the  pale  door, 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever. 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 


MORRIS. 


WOODMAN,  SPARE   THAT   TREE. 


Woodman,  spare  that  tree ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 


41G 


WOODMAN,    SPARK    THAT    TREE.  417 

'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placx'd  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,   woodman,   let  it  stand. 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  'i* 
Woodman,   forbear  thy  stroke  ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towerinp;  to  the  skies  I 


'f5 


When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here  ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear. 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand  1 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  !    the  storm  still  brave  ! 

And,   woodman,  leave  the  s^^ot: 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


105 


■J  IS  MOREIS. 


"LAND-HO!" 

Up,  up,  with  the  signal!     Tlie  land  is  in  sight! 
We'll  be  ho.ppy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night ! 
The  cold,  cheerless  ocean  in  safety  we've  passed, 
And  the  warm  genial  earth  glads  our  vision  at  last. 
In  the  land  of  the  stranger  true  hearts  we  shall  find, 
To  soothe  us  in  absence  of  those  left  behind. 
Land! — land-ho!     All  hearts  glow  with  joy  at  the  sight! 
We'll  be  happy,  if   never  again,  boys,  to-night ! 

The  signal  is  waving/     Till  morn  we'll  remain, 
Then  part  in  the  hope  to  meet  one  day  again 
Round  the  hearth-stone  of  home  in  the  land  of  our  birth. 
The  holiest  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth  1 
Dear  country !  our  thoughts  are  as  constant  to  thee 
As  the  steel  to  the  star,  or  the  stream  to  the  sea. 
Ho  ! — land-ho  !     We  near  it — we  bound  at  the  sight ! 
Then  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night! 

The  signal  is  answered/     The  foam-sparkles  rise 
Like  tears  from  the  ibuntain  of  joy  to  the  eyes  ! 
May  rain-drops  that  fall  from  the  storm-clouds  of   care 
Melt  away  in  the  sun-beaming  smiles  of   the  fair ! 
One  health,  as  chime  gayly  the  nautical  bells, 
To  woman — God  bless  her  ! — wherever  she  dwells  ! 
The  pilot's  on  board! — and,  thank  Heaven,  all's  right; 
So  be  happv,  if   never  again,  boys,  to-night  I 


BOKER. 


A   BALLAD   OF   SIK   JOHN   FEANKLIN. 


0,  WHITHER  sail  you,  Sir  John  Franklin? 

Cried  a  whaler  iu  Baffin's  Bay. 
To  know  if   between  the  land  and  the  pole 

I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way. 


419 


420  BOKER. 

I  charge  you  back,  Sir  John  Franklin, 
As  you  would  live  and  thrive ; 

For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 
No  man  may  sail  alive. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 

And  spoke  unto  his  men : 
Half  England  is  wrong,  if   he  is  right ; 

Bear  off  to  westward,  then. 

0,  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman? 

Cried  the  little  Esquimaux. 
Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go. 

Come  down,  if  5^ou  would  journey  there, 

The  little  Indian  said ; 
And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too : — 

A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new. 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day. 

The  vessels  westward  sped ; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of   Sir  .John  was  blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled. 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 
And  with  many  a  surly  roar, 


A    BALLAD    OF   SIR   JOHN    FRANKLIN.  42] 

But  it  luiinmired  and  threatened  on  every  side  ; 
And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

Ho !    see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of   the  little  Indian's  sled  ! 

The  crew  lausrhed  out  in  glee. 

Sir  John,  Sir  John,   'tis  bitter  cold, 

The  scut  drives  on  the  breeze. 
The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 

The  very  sunbeams  freeze. 

Bright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year ; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down. 

On  yonder  sea  we'll  steer. 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose, 

And  floundered  down  the  gale ; 
The  ships  were  staid,  the  yards  were  manned, 

And  furled  the  useless  sail. 

The  summer's  gone,  the  winter's  come, 

We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea : 
Why  sail  we  not.  Sir  John  Franklin? 

A  silent  man  was  he. 

The  suinmer  goes,  the  winter  comes — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year  : 
I  ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  John,  whert-in  we'd  steer. 

lUO 


422  BOKER. 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more ; 
'Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before — 

My  God !    there  is  no  sea ! 

What  think  you  of   the  whaler  now  ? 

What  of   the  Esquimaux? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship, 

To  cruise  throusih  ice  and  snow. 


o 


Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  northern  light  came  out, 
And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ships. 

And  shook  its  spears  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid : 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak. 
The  hard,  green  ice  is  strong  as  death: — 

I  prithee,  Captain,  speak ! 

The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold. 
The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope — 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold ! 

What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 
liigh  o'er  the  main  flag-staff? 


A   BALLAD    OF    SIR   JOHN    FRANKLIN.  423 

Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down  with  a  patient,  settled  stare. 
Look  down  on  us  and  laugh. 

The  summer  went,  the  winter  came — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year ; 
But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again, 
And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went. 

The  winter  came  around  : 
But  the  hard  green  ice  was  strong  as  death. 
And  the  voice  of   hope  sank  to  a  breath. 

Yet  caught  at  every   sound. 

Hark !    heard  ye  not  the  noise  of   guns  ? 

And  there,   and  there,  again? 
'Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main. 

Hurrali  !    hurrah  !    the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice-fields  steal : 
God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity  ! 
— Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal. 

Sir  John,   where  are  the  English  fields, 
And  where  are  the  English  trees. 

And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 
That  open  in  the  breeze? 

Be  still,  be  still,   my  brave  sailors! 
You  shall  see  the  fields  again 


424  BOKER. 

And  smell  the  scent  of   the  opening  flowers, 
The  grass  and  the  waving  grain. 

Oh  !    when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me. 
Oh  !    when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother, 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors  ! 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again. 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek, 

He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 

Ah  !    bitter,   bitter  grows  the  cold, 
The  ice  grows  more  and  more  ; 

More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 
More  patient  than  before. 

Oh  !    think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 

We'll  ever  see  the  land  ? 
'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 

Without  a  helping  hand. 

'Twas  cruel,  Sir  John,  to  send  us  here, 

So  far  from  help  or  home. 
To  starve  and  fi-eezc  on  tliis  lonely  sea ; 
I  ween,  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 

Would  rather  send  than  come. 

Oh  !    whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done, — 
The  truth  is  ibunded,  the  secret  won, — 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea ! 


SIMMS. 

THE    BROOKLET. 

A  LITTLE  farther  on,  there  is  a  brook 

Where  the  breeze  lingers  idly.     The  high  trees 

Have  roofed  it  with  their  crowding  limbs  and  leaves, 

So  that  the  sun  drinks  not  from  its  sweet  fount, 

And  the  shade  cools  it.     You  may  hear  it  now, 

A.  low,  faint  beating,  as,  upon  the  leaves 

That  lie  beneath  its  rapids,  it  descends 

In  a  fine,  showery  rain,  that  keeps  one  tune. 

And  'tis  a  sweet  one,  still  of   constancy. 

Beside  its  banks,  through  the  whole  livelong  day, 
Ere  yet  I  noted  much  the  speed  of   Time, 
And  knew  him  but  in  songs  and  ballad-books, 
Nor  cared  to  know  him  better,  I  have  lain  ; 
With  thought  uncliid  by  harsher  din  than  came 
From  the  thick  thrush,  that,  gliding   through  the  copse, 
Hurried  above  me  ;    or  the  timid  fawn 
That  came  down  to  the  brooklet's  edge  to  drink. 
And  sauntered  through  its  shade,  cropping  the  grass, 
Ever  where  I  lay, — having  a  quiet  mood, 
And  not  disturbing,  while  surveying  mine. 

Thou  smilest — and  on  thy  lip  a  straying  thought 
Sa3'S  I  have  trifled — calls  my  hours  misspent, 
And  looks  a  solemn  warning !     A  true  thought, — 
And  so  my  errant  mood  were  well  rebuked  ! — 

in?  425 


426  SIMMS. 

Yet  there  was  pleasant  sadness  that  became 
Meetly  the  gentle  heart  and  pliant  sense, 
In  that  same  idlesse — gazing  on  that  brook 
So  pebbly  and  so  clear, — prattling  away. 
Like  a  young  child,  all  thoughtless  till  it  goes 
From  shadow  into  sunlight,  and  is  lost. 


THE   LOST   PLEIAD. 

Not  in  the  sky. 

Where  it  was  seen, 

Nor  on  the  white  tops  of   the  glistering  wave, 

Nor  in  the  mansions  of   the  hidden  deep, — 

Though  green, 

And  beautiful,  its  caves  of   mystery, — 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

A  place — and,  as  of   old,  high  station  keep. 

Gone,  gone ! 

0,  never  more  to  cheer 

The  mariner  who  holds  his  course  alone 

On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night. 

When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers  and  do  sleep. 

Shall  it  appear, 

With  the  sweet  fixedness  of   certain  light, 

Down-shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  deep. 

Vain,  vain  ! 

Hopeful  most  idly  then,  shall  he  look  forth. 

That  mariner  from  his  bark — 


THE    LOST    PLEIAD.  427 

Howe'er  the  north 

Doth  raise  his  certain  lamp  when  tempests  lower — 

He  sees  no  more  that  perished  light  again ! 

And  gloomier  grows  the  hour 

Which  may  not,  through  the  thick  and  crowding   dark, 

Restore  that  lost  and  loved  one  to  lier  tower. 

He  looks, — the  shepherd  on  Chaldea's  hills. 

Tending  his  flocks, — 

And  wonders  the  rich  beacon  doth  not  blaze. 

Gladdening  his  gaze ; 

And,  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks, 

Guiding  him  safely  home  through  perilous  ways  ! 

How  stands  he  in  amaze, 

Still  wondering,  as  the  drowsy  silence  fills 

The  sorrowful  scene,  and  every  hour  distils 

Its  leaden  dews — how  chafes  he  at  the  night. 

Still  slow  to  bring  the  expected  and  sweet  light, 

So  natural  to  his  sight ! 

And  lone, 

Where  its  first  splendors  shone, 

Shall  be  that  pleasant  company  of  stars: 

How  should  they  know  thut  death 

Such  perfect  beauty  mars; 

And,  like  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath. 

Fallen  from  on  high. 

Their  lights  grow  blasted  by  its  touch,  and  die — 

All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony 

Snapped  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone. 

A  strain — a  mellow  strain — 

Of   wailiuo;  sweetues.s,   iiUed  the  earth  and  sky  ; 


428  SIMMS. 

The  stars  lamenting  in  unborrowed  pain 
That  one  of  the  selectest  ones  must  die ; 
Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest ! 
Alas  !    'tis  ever  more  the  destiny, 
The  hoDe  heart-cherished  is  the  soonest  lost ; 
The  flower  first  budded  soonest  feels  the  frost : 
Are  not  the  shortest-lived  still  loveliest? 
And,  like  the  pale  star  shooting  down  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest  when  they  fly 
The  desolate  home  they  blessed  ? 


BILLOWS. 

Gently,  with  sweet  commotion, 

Sweeping  the  shore, 
Billows  that  break  from  ocean 

Rush  to  our  feet; 
Slaves,  that,   with  fond  devotion, 

Prone  to  adore. 
Seek  not  to  stint  with  measui-e 

Service  that's  meet; — 
Bearing  then-  liquid  treasure, 

Flinging  it  round. 
Shouting,  the  while,  the  pleasure 

True  service  knows, 
Then,  as  if   blessed  with  leisure. 

Flung  on  the  yellow  ground, 
Taking  repose  ! 


PRENTICE. 

SABBATH   EVENING. 

How  calmly  sinks  the  parting  sun ' 

Yet  twilight  lingers  still ; 
And  beautiful  as  dream  of   Heaven 

It  slumbers  on  the  hill ; 
Earth  sleeps,  with  all  her  glorious  things, 
Beneath  the  Holy  Spirit's  wings, 
And,  rendering  back  the  hues  above, 
Seems  I'esting  in  a  trance  of  love. 

Round  yonder  rocks  the  forest-trees 

In  shadowy  groups  recline, 
Like  saints  at  evening  bowed  in  prayer 

Around  their  holy  shrine ; 
And  through  their  leaves  the  night-winds  blow 
So  calm  and  still,  their  music  low 
Seems  the  mysterious  voice  of   prayer. 
Soft  echoed  on  the  evening  air. 

And  yonder  western  throng  of   clouds, 

Retiring  from  the  sky, 
So  calmly  move,  so  softly  glow, 

They  seem  to  fancy's  eye 
Bright  creatures  of  a  better  sphere, 
Come  down  at  noon  to  worship  here, 

lOS  429 


430  PRENTICE. 

And,  from  their  sacrifice  of   love, 
Returning  to  their  home  above. 

The  bhie  isles  of  the  golden  sea, 

The  night-arch  floating  by, 
The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 

The  bright  streams  leaping  by, 
Are  living  with  religion — deep 
On  earth  acd  sea  its  glories  sleep, 
And  mingle  with  the  starlight  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  spirit  of   the  holy  eve 

Comes  through  the  silent  air 
To  feeling's  hidden  spring,  and  wakes 

A  gush  of   music  there ! 
And  the  far  depths  of   ether  beam 
So  passing  fair,   we  almost  dream 
That  we  can  rise,  and  wander  through 
Their  open  paths  of  trackless  blue. 

Each  soul  is  filled  with  glorious  dreams, 

Each  pulse  is  beating  wild ; 
And  thouo;ht  is  soarins;  to  the  shrine 

Of   glory  undefiled  1 
And  holy  aspirations  start. 
Like  blessed  angels,  from  the  heart. 
And  bind — for  earth's  dark  ties  are  riven- 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


TO    A    LADY.  431 


TO   A  LADY. 


I  THINK  of  thee  wlien  morning  spring.s 
From  sleep,  with  plumage  bathed  in  dew, 

And,  like  a  young  bird,  lifts  her  wings 
Of   gladness  on  the  welkin  blue. 


to" 


And  when,  at  noon,   the  breath  of   love 
O'er  flower  and  stream  is  wandering  free, 

And  sent  in  music  from  the  grove, 
I  tliiuk  of  thee — I  think  of  thee. 

I  think  of   thee,  when,  soft  and  wide, 
The  evening  spreads  her  robes  of  light, 

A.nd,  like  a  young  and  timid  bride. 
Sits  blushing  in  the  arms  of   night. 

And  when  the  moon's  sweet  crescent  springs 
In  light  o'er  heaven's  deep,  waveless  sea, 

And  stars  are  forth,  like  blessed  things, 
I  think  of  thee — I  think  of   thee. 

I  think  of   thee ; — that  eye  of   flame. 
Those  tresses  falling  bright  and  free, 

That  brow,  where  "Beauty  writes  her  name," 
I  think  of   thee — I  think  of   thee. 


MACKELLAR. 


PITY,  GOOD  GENTLEFOLKS. 


Have  pity  on  the  poor,  good  gentlefolks ; 

For  they  are  cold  and  hungry.     Starving  pain 
Is  hard  to  bear,  and  oftentimes  provokes 

The  deed  of  infamy  and  crime,  t' obtain 
The  bread  that  honest  labor  fails  to  earn. 
Have  pity  on  tlie  poor ;   nor  coldly  turn 

The  ear  away  froin  their  distressful  sighs. 


«2 


PITY,    GOOD    GENTLEFOLKS.  43 

Spurn  not  too  rudely  e'en  the  beggar :  he 
Has  fallen  far,  yet  let  his  misery 

Plead  with  your  heart  and  dew  your  tender  eyes. 
Oh  pity  hiui !     Perchance  'twas  strong  temptation 

That  drew  him  to  this  fate :  perchance  'twas  grief 
For  loss  of  all.     Deep  is  the  desolation 

Of  an  unfi-iended  heart.     Vouchsafe  him  some  relief. 

Have  pity  on  the  poor — the  hidden  ones, 

AVho  shut  their  sorrows  in  their  hearts, — the  worn 

And  weary  man, — the  widow,  and  her  sous 
And  daughters  fatherless, — the  overborne. 

Have  pity  on  the  hapless  slave  of  toil, 
The  patient,  gentle,  fragile  sewing-girl. 
Whose  thin  and  sunken  cheek  is  pale  as  pearl, 

Whose  slender  fingers  constantly  must  moil. 
To  wring  from  masters  the  small  weekly  dole 
That  barely  binds  the  body  and  the  soul. 

And  ye  fine  ladies,  beautiful  and  proud. 

Whose  delicate  forms  are  clad  in  rich  array, 

Remember  those  whose  sister-heads  are  bow'd 
With  toil  for  you,  endured  by  night  and  day. 


o 


Ye  strutters  in  the  gilded  halls  of  fashion. 
Who  idly  brush  the  humble  man  aside, — 

Ye  exquisites,  too  dainty  for  compassion, — 
Ye  pinching,  hard,  unfeeling  sons  of  pride,— 

Ye  who  increase  uj^on  the  'poor  man's  labor — 
AVho  reap  the  harvest  ye  have  never  sown — 
AVho  eat  the  fruit  that  other  men  have  grown, — 

The  Lord  has  said:   "The  wretched  is  your  neighbor.' 
Your  brother  too.     And  in  the  Father's  heart 


434  MACKELLAE. 

(Who  liokls  tlie  world  within  His  love,  and  gives 
Its  daily  food  to  everything  that  lives) 

Perchance  he  has  a  large  and  loving  part. 
Be  kind  and  pitiful  while  yet  ye  may, 
And  sweep  somewhat  of  human  woe  away. 

The  world  is  dark ;  and  who  for  Jesus'  sake 
Do  good  to  man,  are  like  the  city  lamps : 

Their  genial  rays  through  yielding  darkness  break, 
And  cheer  the  wanderer  in  the  midnight  damps. 

They  pale  at  breaking  of  the  morn ;  but  soon 
The  sun  majestic  shall  arise,  and  pour 

A  flood  of  radiance  fi-om  the  skies'  mid-noon : 
Their  little  lamps  are  needed  then  no  more, 

But  all  enwrapt  in  heaven's  own  light  and  glory, 
These  sons  of  mercy  hear  the  Saviour  say, 
"  Ye  did  it  to  the  suffering  sons  of  clay. 

And  so  'twas  done  to  Me."     The  immortal  story 
O'er  the  wide  plains  of  Paradise  shall  fly. 
And  crowds  descend  to  welcome  them  on  high. 


COXE. 

THE   HEART'S  SONG. 

In  the  silent  mirlniorht  watches, 

List — thy  bosom-door  ! 
How  it  knocketh,  knocketli,   knocketh, 

Knocketh  evermore ! 
Say  Qot  'tis  thy  pulse's  beating ; 

'Tis  thy  heart  of   sin  : 
'Tis  thy  Saviour  knocks,  and  crieth, ' 

Rise,  and  let  me  in  ! 

Death  comes  down  with  reckless  footstep 

To  the  hall  and  hut: 
Think  you  Death  will  stand  a-knocking 

Where  the  door  is  shut? 
Jesus  waiteth — waiteth — waiteth  : 

But  thy  door  is  fast ! 
Grieved,  away  thy  Saviour  goeth : 

Death  breaks  in  at  last. 


Then  'tis  thine  to  stand — entreating 

Christ  to  let  thee  in  : 
At  the  gate  of   heaven  beating, 

Wailing  for  thy  sin. 

435 


436 


COXE. 


Nay,  alas  !    thou  foolish  virgin, 
Hast  thou  then  forgot, 

Jesus  waited  long  to  know  thee, 
But  he  knows  thee  not ! 


WAYSIDE   HOMES. 


As  I  rode  on  my  errand  along, 
I  came  where  a  prini  little  spire 

Chimed  out  to  the  landscape  a  song. 
And  glowed  in  the  sunset  like  fire. 


WAYSIDE   HOMES.  437 

Its  cross  beamed  a  beckoning  ray, 

And  the  home  of   my  Motlier  I  knew ; 

So  I  pressed  to  its  portal  to  pray, 

And  my  book  from  my  bosom  I  drew. 

How  sweet  was  the  service  within, 

And  the  plain  rustic  chaunt  how  sincere  I 

How  welcome  the  pardon  of  sin, 

And  the  kind  parting  blessing  how  dear  I 

And  the  parson — I  knew  not  his  name, 

And  the  brethren — each  face  was  unknown  ; 

But  the  Church  and  the  prayers  were  the  same, 
And  my  heart  claimed  them  all  for  its  own. 

For  I  knew — in  my  own  little  nook, 
That  eve,  the  same  Psalter  was  said. 

And  Lessons,  the  same  from  the  Book, 
By  my  far-away  darlings  were  read. 

So  I  231'ayed,  and  went  on  in  my  way, 

Blessing  God  for  the  Church  He  hath  given : 

My  steed  on  his  journey  was  gay ; 

So  was  I — on  my  journey  to  Heaven. 


110 


LOWELL. 

SUMMER   STOEM. 

Untremxjlous  in  the  river  clear, 
Toward  the  sky's  image,  hangs  the  imaged  bridge  ; 

So  still  the  air  that  I  can  hear 
The  slender  clarion  of  the  unseen  midge ; 

Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a  gathering  creep, 
Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now  decreases, 
Now  lulls,  now  swells,  and  all  the  while  increases, 

The  huddling  trample  of  a  drove  of  sheep 
Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  gradually  ceases 

In  dust  on  the  other  side ;   life's  emblem  deep, 
A  confused  noise  between  two  silences, 
Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 
On  the  wide  marsh  the  purple-blossomed  grasses 

Soak  up  the  sunshine ;   sleeps  the  brimming  tide 
Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in  silence  passes 

Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinuous  glide 

Wavers  the  long  green  sedge's  shade  from  side  to  side ; 
But  up  the  west,  like  a  rock-shivered  surge. 

Climbs  a  great  cloud  edged  with  sun-whitened  spray ; 
Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o'er  its  verge, 

And  falling  still  it  seems,  and  yet  it  climbs  alway. 

Suddenly  all  the  sky  is  hid 
As  with  the  shutting  of  a  lid. 
One  by  one  great  drops  are  falling 

Doubtful  and  slow, 
Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly  crawling, 
And  the  wind  breathes  low  ; 


SUMMER   STORM.  439 

Slowly  tlie  circles  widen  on  the  river, 

Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all ; 
Here  and  there  the  slenderer  flowers  shiver, 

Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop's  fall. 

Now  on  the  hills  I  hear  the  thunder  mutter, 

The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west ; 
The  upturned  leaves  first  whiten  and  flutter, 

Then  droop  to  a  fitful  rest ; 
Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 

Struggles  the  gull  and  floats  away  ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  the  thunder-clap, — 

We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to-day  : 
Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 

And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified  feet, 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh. 

You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the  tempest  beat. 


Look  !   look  !   that  livid  flash  ! 
And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thunder. 
As  if  some  cloud-crag,  split  asunder. 

Fell,  splintering  witli  a  ruinous  crash, 
On  the  Earth,  which  crouches  in  silence  under ; 


440  LOWELL. 

And  now  a  solid  gray  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  off  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile ; 

For  a  breath's  space  I  see  the  blue  wood  again, 
And,  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind-hurled  pile. 
That  seemed  but  now  a  league  aloof, 
Bursts  crackling  o'er  the  sun-parched  roof ; 
Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes  dashing, 
Through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears  crashing. 
The  blue  lightning  flashes. 
The  rapid  hail  clashes. 
The  white  waves  are  tumbling. 

And.  in  one  baffled  roar. 
Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling 

A  rock-bristled  shore, 
The  thunder  is  rumbling 
And  crashing  and  crumbling, — 
Will  silence  return  nevermore? 

Hush  !      Still  as  death. 
The  tempest  holds  his  breath 
As  from  a  sudden  will ; 
The  rain  stops  short,  but  £i-om  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  the  leaves, 
All  is  so  bodingly  still ; 
Again,  now,  now,  again 
Plashes  the  rain  in  heavy  gouts, 
The  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening, 
And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 
His  battle-song, — 


Till';    FIRST   SNOW-FALL  441 

One  quivering  flash, 
One  wildering  crash, 
Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 
As  if  the  cloud,  let  go, 
Leapt  bodily  below 
To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  overthrow, 
And  then  a  total  lull. 

Gone,  gone,  so  soon  ! 
No  more  my  half-crazed  fancy  there 
Can  shape  a  giant  in  the  air, 
No  more  I  see  his  streaming  hair, 
The  writhing  portent  of  his  form ; — 
The  pale  and  quiet  moon 
Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare. 
And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm, 
Like  shattered  rigging  from  a  fight  at  sea, 
Silent  and  few  are  drifting  over  me. 


THE   FIRST   SNOW-FALL. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl. 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 

Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow, 
in 


442  LOWELL. 

The  stiff  rails  were  softened  to  swan's-down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood ; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,   "Father,  who  makes  it  snow?" 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall. 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  skv 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  our  deep-plunged  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 
"  The  snow  that  husheth  a]l. 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall !" 

Then,  with  eves  that  saw  not,   T  kissed  her; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister. 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 


WHITTIER. 

THE   RIVER   PATH. 

No  bird-song  Hoated  down  the  liill, 
The  tano-led  bank  below  was  still : 

No  rustle  fi'om  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew ; 

For,  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  farther  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified,^ 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 

A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom  : 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod. 
We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon  or  sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

443 


444 


WHITTIEK. 


We  paused,  as  if  from  that  l^riglit  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before ; 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 


Through  their  green  gates   the  sunshine  showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendor  downward  flowed. 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  banlc  it  rolled ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied' 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  ! 

"  So,"  prayed  we,  "  when  our  foct  draw  near 
The  rivei'  dark  with   moi'tal   fear, 


TIIR   VANISHERS.  445 

"  And  the  nisrlit  cometli  chill  with  dew, 
0  Father!  let  thy  light  break  through! 

"So  let  the  hills  ol"  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide ! 

"  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth ; 

"And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  oyes  whom  we  loved  below  !" 


THE   VANISHERS. 

Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  simple  Indian  lore 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Bafflins;  search,   but  beckonino-  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Througli  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers  ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 

And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 
Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  clifl", 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

112 


446  wniTTiEK. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls ; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  may,  0  fiiend  of  mine ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too : 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 
In  the  gold  of  setting  day ; 

More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 
Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown. 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth. 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown, — 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste. 

Loving  hands  wc  may  not  clasp, 
Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste, — 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more. 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,   still   before, 


THE    VANISnERS.  447 

Guided  thus,  0  friend  of  mine ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  bafHed  feet, 

Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand. 
Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet. 

Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land  I 


STODDARD. 


riSfe 


THE  SEA. 


Through  the  night,  through  the  night, 

In  the  saddest  unrest, 
Wrapt  in  white,  all  in  white, 

With  her  babe  on  her  breast, 
Walks  the  mother  so  pale, 
Staring  out  on  the  gale 

Through  the  night ! 


448 


LEAVES.  449 

Through  the  night,  through  the  night, 

Where  the  sea  hfts  the  wreck. 
Land  in  sight,  close  in  sight, 

On  the  surf-flooded  deck 
Stands  the  tather  so  brave. 
Driving  on  to  his  grave 

Through  the  night! 


LEAVES. 

What  is  hfe,  and  what  are  we  ? 
Only  leaves  upon  a  tree. 
Green  to-day,  to-morrow  sear, 
Then  we  are  no  longer  here ! 

Others,  fair  and  brave  as  we. 
Grew,  of  old,  upon  the  tree ; 
Wow  they  crumble  in  the  mould. 
With  their  histories  untuld. 

So  shall  we  :   it  is  our  lot 
Thus  to  die  and  be  forgot ; 
By  and  by  the  tree  will  fall. 
One  oblivion  waits  for  all.. 


BUTLER 


THE   BEGGAE. 

A  BEGPxAP.  througli  tlie  world  so  wide, 

I  wander  all  alone ; 
Yet  once  a  brighter  fate  was  mine, 

In  days  that  long  have  flown. 


Within  mv  father's  house  I  grew, 
A  happy  child  and  free ; 

But  ah  !  the  heritage  of  want 
Is  all  he  left  to  me. 


450 


THE   BEGGAR.  451 

The  gardens  of  the  rich  I  view, 

The  fields  with  bounty  spread ; 
My  path  is  through  ilie  fruitless  way, 

Where  toil  and  sorrow  tread. 

And  yet,  amidst  the  joyous  throng, 

The  joys  of  all  I  share ; 
With  willing  heart  I  wait,  and  hide 

My  secret  load  of  care. 

0  blessed  God!  I  am  not  left 

An  exile  from  thy  love ; 
On  all  the  world  thy  smiles  descend 

In  mercy  from  above. 

In  every  valley  still  I  find 

The  temples  of  thy  grace. 
Where  organ  notes  and  choral  songs 

With  music  fill  the  place. 

For  me  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars. 

Reveal  their  holy  rays. 
And  when  the  vespers  call  to  prayer, 

My  heart  ascends  in  praise. 

Some  time  I  know  the  gates  of  bliss 

Will  open  to  the  blest, 
And  I,  in  marriage  garments  clad, 

Shall  rise  a  welcome  guest. 


TAYLOR. 


THE   EETURN   OF   SPRINa. 

Have  I  passed  through  Death's  unconscious  birth, 

In  a  dream  the  midnight  bare? 
I  look  on  another  and  fairer  Earth : 

I  breathe  a  wondrous  air ! 


A  spirit  of  beauty  walks  the  hills, 

A  spirit  of  love  the  plain ; 
The  shadows  are  bright,  and  the  sunshine  fills 

The  air  with  a  diamond  rain  ! 

462 


THE  RETURN  OK  SPRING.  453 

Before  my  vision  the  glories  swim, 

To  the  dance  of  a  tune  unheard : 
Is  an  angel  singing  where  woods  are  dim, 

Or  is  it  an  amorous  bird  ? 

Is  it  a  spike  of  azure  flowers, 

Deep  in  the  meadows  seen, 
Or  is  it  the  peacock's  neck,  that  towers 

Out  of  the  spangled  green? 

Is  a  white  dove  glancing  across  the  blue, 

Or  an  opal  taking  wing? 
For  my  soul  is  dazzled  through  and  through 

With  the  splendor  of  the  Spring. 

Is  it  she  that  shines,  as  never  before, 

The  tremulous  hills  above, — 
Or  the  heart  witldn  me,  awake  once  more 

To  the  dawning  light  of  love? 

114 


SAXE. 


THE  OLD  CHAPEL-BELL. 

A  BALLAD. 

Within  a  cluircliyard's  sacred  ground, 

Whose  fading  tablets  tell 
Where  they  who  built  the  village  church 

In  solemn  silence  dwell, 
Half  liidden   in  the  earth,  there  lies 

An  ancient  Chapel-Bell. 


THE    OLD    CHAPEL-riELL.  455 

Broken,  decayed,  and  covered  o'er 

With  mouldering  leaves  and  rust ; 
Its  very  name  and  date  concealed 

Beneath  a  cankering  crust ; 
Forgotten,- — like  its  early  friends, 

Who  sleep  in  neighboring  dust. 

Yet  it  was  once  a  trusty  Bell, 

Of  most  sonorous  lung, 
And  many  a  joyous  wedding-peal 

And  many  a  knell  had  rung. 
Ere  Time  had  cracked  its  brazen  sides, 

And  broke  its  iron  tongue. 

And  many  a  youthful  heart  had  danced. 

In  merry  Christmas-time, 
To  hear  its  pleasant  roundelay, 

Sung  out  in  ringing  rhyme  ; 
And  many  a  worldly  thought  been  checked 

To  list  its  Sabbath  chime. 

A  youth, — a  bright  and  happy  boy, 

One  sultry  summer's  day. 
Aweary  of  his  bat  and  ball. 

Chanced  hitherward  to  stray, 
To  read  a  little  book  he  had. 

And  rest  him  from  his  play. 

"A  soft  and  shady  spot  is  this!" 

The  rosy  youngster  cried. 
And  sat  him  down,  beneath  a  tree. 

That  ancient  Bell  beside; 
(But,  hidden  in  the  tangled  grass, 

The  Bell  he  ne'er  espied.) 


456  SAXE. 

Anon,  a  mist  fell  on  his  book, 
The  letters  seemed  to  stir. 

And  though,  full  oft,  his  flagging  siglit 
The  boy  essayed  to  spur, 

The  mazy  page  was  quickly  lost 
Beneath  a  cloudy  blur. 

And  while  he  marveled  much  at  this, 
And  wondered  how  it  came. 

He  felt  a  languor  creeping  o'er 
His  young  and  weary  fi-ame. 

And  heard  a  voice,  a  gentle  voice. 
That  plainly  spoke  his  name. 

That  gentle  voice  that  named  his  name 
Entranced  him  like  a  spell, 

Upon  his  ear  so  very  near 
And  suddenly  it  fell. 

Yet  soft  and  musical,  as  'twere 
The  whisper  of  a  bell. 

"Since  last  I  spoke,"  the  voice  began, 
"Seems  many  a  dreary  year! 
(Albeit,  'tis  only  since  thy  birth 

I've  lain  neglected  here  !) 
Pray  list,  while  I  rehearse  a  tale 
Behooves  thee  much  to  hear. 

"  Once,  from  yon  ivied  tower,  I  watched 

The  villagers  around, 
And  gave  to  all  their  joys  and  griefs 

A  sympathetic  sound, — 
But  most  are  sleeping,  now,  within 

Tliis  consecrated  ground. 


THE    OLD    rHAFKL-JiKLL.  457 

"  I  used  to  ring  my  raerrieBt  peal 

To  liail   the  blushing  bride ; 
I  sadly  tolled  for  men  cut  down 

In  strength  and  maidy  j^ride ; 
And  solemnly, — not  mournfully, — 

When  little  children  died. 

"  But,   chief,  my  duty  was  to  bid 

The  villagers  rejsair. 
On  each  returning  Sabbath  morn, 

Unto  the  House  of  Prayer, 
And  in  His  own  appointed  place 

The  Saviour's  mercy  share. 

"  Ah  !   well  I  mind  me  of  a  child, 

A  gleesome,   happy  maid. 
Who  came,  with  constant  step,  to  church, 

In  comely  garb  arrayed, 
And  knelt  her  down  full  solemnly. 

And  penitently  prayed. 

"  And  oft,  when  church  was  done,  I  marked 

That  little  maiden  near 
This  pleasant  spot,   with  book  in  hand. 

As  you  are  sitting  here, — 
She  read  the  Story  of  the  Cross, 

And  wept  with  grief  sincere. 

"Years  rolled  away, — and  I  beheld 

The  child  to  woman  grown ; 
Her  cheek  was  fairer,  and  her  eye 

With  brighter  lustre  shone  ; 

But  childhood's  truth  and  innocence 

Were  still   the  maiden's  own. 
11. =1 


i58  SAXE. 

"  I  never  rang  a  merrier  peal 
Than  when,  a  joyous  bride, 

She  stood  beneath  the  sacred  porch, 
A  noble  youth  beside, 

And  plighted  him  her  maiden  troth. 
In  maiden  love  and  pride. 

"  I  never  tolled  a  deeper  knell, 
Than  when,  in  after  years. 

They  laid  her  in  the  churchyard  here, 
Where  this  low  mound  appears, — 

(The  very  grave,  my  boy,  that  you 
Are  watering  now  with  tears  !) 

"  It  is  thy  mother  !  gentle  boy. 

That  claims  this  tale  of  mine, — 
Thou  art  a  flower  whose  fatal  birth 

Destroyed  the  parent  vine  ! 
A  precious  flower  art  thou,  my  child,— 

Two    LIVES    WERE   GIVEN    FOR   THINE  ! 

"  One  was  thy  sainted  mother's,  when 
She  gave  thee  mortal  birth ; 

And  one  thy  Saviour's  when  in  death 
He  shook  the  solid  earth  ; 

Go  !   boy,  and  live  as  may  befit 
Thy  life's  exceeding  worth  !" 

The  boy  awoke  as  from  a  dream, 
And,  thoughtful,  looked  around, 

But  nothing  saw,  save  at  his  feet 
His  mother's  lowly  mound, 

And  by  its  side  that  ancient  Bell, 
Half  hidden   in  the  ground  ! 


LOOKING   OUT   INTO    THE    NIGHT.  459 


LOOKING   OUT   INTO   THE   NIGHT. 

Looking  out  into  the  night, 

I  behold  in  space  afar 

Yonder  beaming,  blazing  star; 
And  I  marvel  at  the  might 

Of  tlie  Giver  of  the  rays. 

And  I  worship  as  I  gaze, 
Looking  out  into  the  night. 

Looking  out  into  the  night, 
I  espy  two  lovers  near, 
And  their  happy  words  I  hear. 

While  their  solemn  troth  they  plight; 
And  I  bless  the  loving  twain. 
Half  in  pleasure,  half  in  pain, — 

Lookinc;  out  into  the  nio;ht.  ■ 

Looking  out  into  the  night, 
Lo  ! — a  woman  passing  by, 
Glaneing  round  with  anxious  eye. 

Tearful,  fearful  of  the  lio;ht ; 

And  I  think  what  mio-ht  have  been 
But  for  treachery  and  sin, — 

Looking  out  into  the  night. 

Looking  out  in1o  the  night, 
I  Iteliold  a  distant  sail 
Roughly  beaten  by  the  gale 

Till  it  vanishes  from  sight; 


460  SAXE. 

And  I  ponder  on  the  strife 
Of  our  fleeting  human  hfe, — 
Looking  out  into  the  night. 

Looking  out  into  the  night, 
I  bethink  me  of  the  rest 
And  the  rapture  of  the  blest 

Li  the  land  where  all  is  light ; 
Sitting  on  the  heavenly  shore, 
Weeping  never, — nevermore 
"Looking  out  into  the   night!" 


TO   A   CLAM. 

Dum  tacent  clama.nt. 

Inglorious  friend!   most  confident  I  am 

Thy  life  is  one  of  very  little  ease  ; 

Albeit  men  mock  thee  with  their  similes 
And  prate  of  being  "happy  as  a  clam"! 
What  though  thy  shell  protects  thy  fragile  head 

From  the  sharp  bailiffs  of  the  briny  sea? 

Thy  valves  are,  sure,  no  safety-valves  to  thee. 
While  rakes  are  free  to  desecrate  thy  bed. 
And  bear  the©  off, — as  foemen  take  their  spoil, — 

Far  from  thy  fi-iends  and  family  to  roam ; 

Forced,  like  a  Hessian,  from  thy  native  home. 
To  meet  destruction  in  a  foreign  broil  ! 

Though  thou  art  tender,  yet  thy  humble  bard 

Declares,  0  clam  !   thy  case  is  shocking  hard ! 


HAY. 


JIM  BLUDSO, 

OF   THE   PRAIRIE   BELLE. 

Wall,  no  !   I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 

Becase  he  don't  live,  you  see  ; 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie.  Belle  ? 

He  weren't  no  saint, — them  engineers 
Is  all  pretty  much  alike, — 

116  161 


462  HAY. 

One  wife  in  jSFatcliez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  Lere  in  Pike  ; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row, — ■ 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied, — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had, — • 

To  treat  his  engine  well ; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river ; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell ; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire, — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip, 

And  her  day  come  at  last, — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  wouldnt  be  passed, 
And  so  she  come  tearin'  along  that  nio-ht — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar. 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  mace 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out. 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"  I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 


JIM   BLUDSO. 


463 


Through  tlie  hot,  black  breath  of  the  Ijuniin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got  oiF 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell, — ■ 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  weren't  no  .saint, — but  at  jedgraent 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing, 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then, — 
And  Christ  ain't  a  going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


LITTLE    BREECHES. 


I  don't  go  much  on  religion, 

I  never  ain't  had  no  show  : 
But  I've  got  a  iniddlin'  tight  grip,  sir, 

On  the  handful  o'  things  I  know. 
I  don't  pan  out  on  the  prophets, 

And  free-will,  and  that  sort  of  thing,- 
But  I  b'lieve  in  God  and  the  angels. 

Ever  sence  one  night  last  spring. 


464  HAY. 

I  come  into  town  with  some  turnips, 

And  my  little  Gabe  come  along, — 
'No  four-year-old  in  the  county 

Uould  beat  him  for  pretty  and  strong, 
Peart  and  chipper  and  sassy, 

Always  ready  to  swear  and  fight, — 
And  I'd  larnt  him  to  chaw  terbacker 

Jest  to  keep  his  milk-teeth  white. 

The  snow  come  down  like  a  blanket 

As  I  passed  by  Taggart's  store ; 
I  went  in  for  a  jug  of  molasses. 

And  left  the  team  at  the  door. 
They  scared  at  something  and  started, — 

I  heard  one  little  squall, 
And  hell-to-split  over  the  prairie 

Went  team,   Little  Breeches  and  all. 

Hell-to-split  over  the  prairie  ! 

I  was  almost  froze  with  skeer ; 
But  we  rousted  up  some  torches, 

And  sarched  for  'em  far  and  near. 
At  last  we  struck  bosses  and  wagon, 

Snowed  under  a  soft  white  mound, 
Upsot,  dead  beat, — but  of  little  Gabe 

No  hide  nor  hair  was  found. 

And  here  all  hope  soured  on  me 
Of  my  fellow-critter's  aid, — 

T  jest  flopped  down  on  my  marrow-bones, 
Crotch-deep  in   the  snow,  and   prayed. 


LITTLE    BRKECHKS.  465 

By  this,  the  torches  was  played  out, 

And  mc  and  Isrul  Parr 
Went  off'  for  some  wood  to  a  sheepfold 

That  he  said  was  somewhar  tliar. 

We  found  it  at  last,  and  a  little  shed 

Where  they  shut  up  the  lambs  at  night. 
We  looked  in  and  seen  them  huddled  thar, 

So  warm  and  sleepy  and  white ; 
And  THAR  sot  Little  Breeches  and  chirped, 

As  peart  as  ever  you  see, 
'  I  want  a  chaw  of  terbacker, 

And  that's  what's  the  matter  of  me." 

How  did  he  git  thar?      Angels. 

He  could  never  have  walked  in  that  storm. 
They  jest  scooped  down  and  toted  him 

To  whar  it  was  safe  and  warm 
And  I  think  that  saving  a  little  child, 

And  bringing  him  to  his  own, 

Is  a  derned  sight  better  business 

Than  loafing  around  The  Throne. 
11- 


BARTE. 


THE   TWO   SHIPS. 


As  I  stand  by  the  cross  on  the  lone  mountain's  crest, 

Looking  over  the  nltimatc  sea, 
In  the  gloom  of  the  mountain  a  ship  lies  at  rest, 

And  one  sails  away  from  the  lea : 
One  spreads  its  white  wings  on  a  far-reaching  track, 

With  pennant  and  sheet  flowing  free ; 
One  hides  in  the  shadow  with  sails  laid  aback, — 

The  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me  ! 

466 


PLAIN    LANGUAGE    FROM   TllUTIIFUL    JAMES.  467 

But  lo,  in  the  distance  the  clouds  break  away! 

The  Gate's  glowing  portals  I  see ; 
And  I  hear  from  the  outgoing  ship  in  the  bay 

The  song  of  the  sailors  in  glee : 
So  I  think  of  the  luminous  footprints  that  bore 

The  comfort  o'er  dark  Galilee, 
And  wait  for  the  signal  to  go  to  the  shore, 

To  the  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me. 


PLAIN   LANGUAGE   FEOM   TRUTHFUL   JAMES. 

Which  I  wish  to  remark, — 

And  my  language  is  plain, — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark. 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, — 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name. 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply  ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third ; 

And  cfuite  soft  was  the  skies: 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise  ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  AVilliam 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 


468  HARTE. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  euchre.      The  same 

He  did  not  understand ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve. 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve : 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see, — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower. 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh. 

And  said,  "Can  this  be? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor;" 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand : 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 


PLAIN    LANGUAGK    FROM    TRUTHFUL   JAMES.  469 

Witli  the  cards  that  Ah  Sii)  hud  been  hiding, 
In  the  game  "he  did  not  understand." 

In  his  sleeves,  wnich  were  long, 

He  had  twenty -four  packs, — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper. 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers, — that's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark. 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain. 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar, — 

Which  the  same  I  am  fi-ee  to  maintain. 

118 


MILLER. 


KIT   CARSON'S  RIDE. 

"Run?      Now  you  bet  you;   I  rather  guess  so! 
But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.     Whoa,  Pache,  boy,  whoa. 
No,  you  wouldn't  believe  it  to  look  at  his  eyes, 
But  he  is  badger  blind,  and  it  happened  this  wise. 


"  We  lay  in  the  grasses  and  the  sun-burnt  clover 
That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great  brown  cover 
Northward  and  southward,  and  west  and  away 
To  the  Brazos,  to  where  our  lodges  lay, 


470 


KIT  Carson's  iude.  471 

One  broad  and  unlji'oken  sea  of  brown, 
Awaiting  the  curtains  of  niglit  to  come  down 
To  cover  us  over  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian  town 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride  of  a  night. 

"  We  lounged  in  the  grasses — her  eyes  were  in  mine, 
And  her  hands  on  my  knee,  and  her  hair  was  as  wine 
In  its  wealth  and  its  flood,  pouring  on  and  all  over 
Her  bosom  wine-red,  and  pressed  never  by  one ; 
And  her  touch  was  as  warm  as  the  tinge  of  the  clover 
Burnt  bi-own  as  it  reached  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun ; 
And  her  words  were  as  low  as  the  lute-throated  dove, 
And  as  laden  with  love  as  the  heart  when  it  beats 
In  its  hot  eager  answer  to  earliest  love. 
Or  the  bee  hurried  home  by  its  burthen  of  sweets. 

"We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 
Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride ; 
And  the  heavens  of  blue  and  the  harvest  of  brown 
And  beautiful  clover  were  welded  as  one. 
To  the  right  and  the  left,  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 
'  Portv  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 
Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 
Of  red  Camanches  are  hot  on  the  track 
When  once  they  strike  it.      Let  the  sun  go  down 
Soon,  very  soon,'  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 
As  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 
Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.     Then  he  jerked  at  his  steed 
And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 
And   then    dropped,    as    if    shot,    with    his    ear    to    the 
groimd ; 


472  MILLER. 

Tlieii  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride. 
While  his  eyes  were  hke  fire,  his  face  hke  a  shroud. 
His  form  hke  a  king,  and  his  beard  hke  a  cloud, 
And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  if  blown  from  a  reed, — 

'  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  to  steed. 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed, 

.  And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  vide! 
For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire. 
And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 
I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire.' 


"  We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein. 
Threw  them   on,   sinched   them   on,   sinched   them   over 

again. 
And  again  drew  the  girth,   cast  aside  the  macheers, 
Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 
Cast  aside  the  catenas  red-spangled  with  gold, 
And  gold-mounted  Colts,  the  companio.ns  of  years. 
Cast  the  silken  serapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath. 
And  so  bared  to  the  skin  sprang  all  haste  to  the  horse — 
As  bare  as  when  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 
Of  God — without  word,  or  one  word  of  command. 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death. 
Turned  licad  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the  hair 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his  course : 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  rusli  of  an  army,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 
Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  u])  to  tlio  sky. 


KIT    CARSON  S    RIDE.  473 

Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  Ijlack  rolling  sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blew  hollow  and  hoarse. 

"  Not  a  word,   not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 
Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  nor  low  call 
Of  love-note  or  courage  ;   but  on  o'er  the  plain 
So  steady  and  still,  leaning  low  to  the  mane, 
With  the  heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the  rein, 
Rode  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  nose  and  gray  nose, 
Reachincv  lono-  breathing  loud,  as  a  creviced  wind  lilows: 
Yet  we  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a  prayer ; 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the  air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 

"  Gray  nose  to  gray  nose,  and  each  steady  mustang 
Stretched   neck  and   stretched   nerve  till  the  arid  earth 

rang, 
And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and  the  neck 
Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-drivon  deck. 
Twenty  miles !    .    .    .   thirty  miles  1    ...   a  dim  distant 

speck   .    .    . 
Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight. 
And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right — ■ 
But  Revels  was  gone  ;   I  glanced  by  ray  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger ;   I  saw  his  head  drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stooping 
Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
To  risht  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 
A  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 

110 


474  MILLER. 

Rushing  on  in  the  renr,  reaching  high,  reaching  higher. 
And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffalo  bull, 
The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 
Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 
And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 
Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire. 
While   his   keen   crooked   horns,   through  the   storm   of 

his  mane. 
Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again ; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked  through, 
And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

"I   looked   to    my    left   then — and    nose,    neck,    and 
shoulder 
Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,   till  back  to  my  thighs ; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvellous  eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  a  look  of  despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her. 
And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 
Did  subside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fall  as  dead. 
Then  she  saw  sturdy  Pachd  still  lorded  his  head, 
With  a  look  of  delight ;   for  nor  courage  nor  bribe, 
Nor  naught  but  my  bride,  could  have  brought  him  to  me. 
For  he  was  her  father's,  and  at  South  Santafee 
Had  once  won  a  whole  herd,  sweeping  everything  down 
In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the  crown. 
And  so  when  I  y^on  the  true  heart  of  my  bride — 
My  neighbor's  and  di-ndliest  enemy's  child, 


KIT  Carson's  ride.  475 

And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe — 

She  brought  inc  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 

She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 

From  the  lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  North  Brazos  side ; 

And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 

As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 

The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 

I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 

Than  to  ride,  without  blood,  to  the  North  Brazos  side, 

And  await  her — and  wait  till  the  next  hollow  moon 

Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 

And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 

Without  bloodshed  or  word.      And  now  as  she  fell 

From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean  of  fire, 

The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 

That  J  should  escape — a  love — a  desire- — 

Yet  never  a  word,   not  one  look  of  appeal, 

Lest  I  should  reach  hand,  should  stay  hand  or  stay  heel 

One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

"Then  the  rushing  of  fire  around  me  and  under, 
And  the  howling  of  beasts  and  a  sound  as  of  thunder — 
Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and  over, 
As  the  passionate  flame  reached  around  them,  and  wove 

her 
Red  hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they  died — 
Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  desolate  moan. 
As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone   .    .   . 
And  into  the  Brazos   ...   I  rode  all  alone — 
All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limbed. 
And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 
Then,  just  ns  the  terrible  sea  came  in 


476  MILLER. 

And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide, 

Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream  brimmed 

In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 

"Sell  Pach^ — blind  Pache?     Now,  mister,  look  here. 
You  have  slept  in  my  tent  and  partook  of  my  cheer 
Many  days,  many  days,  on  this  rugged  h'ontier, 
For   the  ways  they   were   rough    and    Camanches   were 

near ; 
But  you'd  better  pack  up,  sir !     That  tent  is  too  small 
For  us  two  after  this !     Has  an  old  mountaineer. 
Do  you  book-men  believe,  got  no  tum-tum  at  all? 
Sell  Pache  !      You  buy  him  !      A  bag  full  of  gold ! 
You  show  him !      Tell  of  him  the  tale  I  have  told ! 
Why,  he  bore  me  through  fire,  and  is  blind,  and  is  old ! 
.   .   ,   Now  pack  up  your  papers,  and  get  up  and  spin 
To  them  cities  you  tell  of  .   .   .   Blast  you  and  your  tin  !" 


TIM  ROD. 


LOVE'S   LOGIC. 


And  if  I  ask  thee  for  a  kiss, 

I  ask  no  more  than  this  sweet  breeze, 
With  far  less  title  to  the  bliss. 

Steals  every  minute  at  his  ease. 
And  yet  how  placid  is  thy  brow  ! 

It  seems  to  woo  the  bold  caress, 
While  now  he  takes  his  kiss,  and  now 

All  sorts  of  fi-eedoms  with  thy  dress. 


120 


47T 


478  TIMROD. 

0]'  if  I  dare  tliy  hand  to  touch, 

Hath  nothing  pressed  its  palm  before  ? 
A  flower,  I'm  sure,  hath  done  as  much, 

And  ah  !   some  senseless  diamond  more. 
It  strikes  u.e,  love,  the  very  rings 

Now  sparkling  on  that  hand  of  thine 
Could  tell  some  truly  startling  things, 

If  they  had  tongues  or  touch  like  mine. 

Indeed,  indeed,  I  do  not  know, 

Of  all  that  thou  hast  power  to  grant, 
A  boon  for  which  I  could  not  show 

Some  pretty   precedent  extant. 
Suppose,   for  instance,  I  should  clasp 

Thus, — so, — and  thus  !  thy  slender  waist- 
I  would  not  hold  within  my  grasp 

More  than  this  loosened  zone  embraced. 

Oh  !   put  the  auger  from  thine  eyes, 

Or  shut  them  if  they  still  must  fi-own  ; 
Those  lids,  despite  yon  garish  skies, 

Can  bring  a  timely  darkness  down. 
Then,  if  in  that  convenient  night, 

My  lips  should  press  thy  dewy  mouth, 
The  touch  shall  be  so  soft,  so  light, 

Thou'lt  fancv  me — this  gentle  South. 


LELAND. 


THE   FISHER'S   COTTAaE. 


We  sat  by  the  fisher's  cottage, 
And  loolied  at  the  stormy  tide ; 

The  evening  mist  came  rising, 
And  floatino;  far  and  wide. 


479 


480  LELAKD. 

One  by  one  in  the  lightliouse 
The  lamps  shone  out  on  high  • 

And  far  on  the  dim  horizon 
A  ship  went  saiUng  by. 

We  spoke  of  storm  and  shipwreck, — 
Of  sailors,  and  how  they  liA'e ; 

Of  jom'neys  'twixt  sky  and  water. 
And  the  sorrows  and  joys  they  give. 

We  spoke  of  distant  countries, 

In  regions  strange  and  fair. 
And  of  the  wondi'ous  beings 

And  curious  customs  there ; 

Of  perfumed  lamps  on  the  Ganges, 

Which  are  launched  in  the  twilight  hour ; 

And  the  dark  and  silent  Brahmins, 
Who  worship  the  lotos  flower ; 

Of  the  wretched  .dwarfs  of  Lapland, — 
Broad-headed,  wide-mouthed  and  small, — 

Who  crouch  round  their  oil-fires,  cooking, 
And  chatter  and  scream  and  bawl. 

And  the  maidens  earnestly  listened, 
Till  at  last  we  spoke  no  more ; 

The  ship  like  a  shadow  had  vanished. 
And  darkness  fell  deep  ou  the  shore. 


CARLETON. 


GOIN'   HOME   TO-DAY. 


My  business  on  the  jury's  done — the  quibbhn'  all  is 
through — 

I've  watched  the  lawyers  right  and  left,  and  give  my  ver- 
dict true ; 

I  stuck  so  long  unto  my  chair,  I  thought  I  would  grow  in  ; 

And  if  I  do  not  know  myself,  they'll  get  me  there  ag'in  ; 


121 


4S1 


482  CAELETON. 

But  now  the  court's  adjourned  for  good,  and  I  have  got 

my  pay ; 
I'm  loose  at  last,  and,  thank  the  Lord,  I'm  going  home 

to-day. 

I've   somehow  felt   uneasy  like   since   first   day  I  come 

down  ; 
It  is  an  awkward  game  to  play  the  gentleman  in  town ; 
And  this  'ere  Sunday  suit  of  mine  oii  Sunday  rightly  sets ; 
But  when  I  wear  the  stuff  a  week,  it  somehow  galls  and 

frets. 
I'd  rather  wear  ray  homespun  rig  of  pepper-salt  and  gray — 
I'll  have  it  on  in  half  a  jiff  when  I  get  home  to-day. 

I  have  no  doubt  my  wife  looked  out,  as  well  as  any  one — 
As  well   as   any  woman   could — to   see   tliat  things  was 

done: 
For  though  Melinda,  when  I'm  there,  won't  set  her  foot 

outdoors. 
She's  very  careful,  when  I'm  gone,  to  tend  to  all  the  chores. 
But  nothing  prospers  half  so  well  when  I  go  off  to  stay, 
And  I  will  put  things  into  shape  when  I  get  home  to-day. 

The  mornin'  that  I  come  away  we  had  a  little  bout ; 

I  coolly  took  my  hat  and  left  before  the  show  was  out. 

l-'or  what  I  said  was  naught  whereat  she  ought  to  take 
offence  ; 

And  she  was  always  quick  at  words  and  ready  to  com- 
mence. 

But  then  she's  first  one  to  give  up  when  she  has  had  her 
say; 

And  she  will  meet  me  with  a  kiss  When  I  go  home  to-day. 


CARLETON.  483 

My  little  boy — I'll  give  'em  leave  to  match  him  if  they 

can; 
It's  fun  to  see  him  strut  about,  and  try  to  be  a  man ! 
The  gamest,  cheeriest  little  chap  you'd  ever  want  to  see  ! 
And  then  they  laugh  because  I  think  the  child  resembles 

me. 
The  little  rogue  !    he  goes  for  me,   like  robbers  for  their 

prey ; 
He'll  turn  my  pockets  inside  out  when  I  get  home  to-day. 

My  little  girl — I  can't  contrive  how  it  should  happen  thus — 
That  God  could  pick  that  sweet  bouquet,  and  fling  it  down 

to  us ! 
My  wife,  she  says  that  han'some  face  will  some  day  make 

a  stir ; 
And  then  I  lautrh  because  she  thinks  the  child  resembles 

her. 
She'll  meet  me  half-way  down  the  liill,  and  kiss  me,  any 

way  ; 
And  light  my  heart  up  with  her  smiles  wlien  I  go  home 

to-day  1 

If  there's  a  heaven  upon  the  earth,  a  fellow  knows  it  when 
He's  been  away  fi-om  home  a  week,  and  then  gets  back 

again. 
If  there's  a  heaven  above  the  earth,  there  often,  I'll  be 

bound. 
Some  homesick  fellow  meets  his  folks,  and  hugs  'em  all 

around. 
But  let  my  creed  be  right  or  wrong,  or  be  it  as  it  may, 
My  heaven  is  just  ahead  of  me — I'm  going  home  to-day. 


HOLLAND. 

("TIMOTHY  TITCOMB.") 
EUEEKA. 

Whom  I  crown  with  love  is  royal ; 

Matters  not  lier  blood  or  birth  ; 
She  is  queen,  and  I  am  loyal 

To  the  noblest  of  the  eartli. 

iX'either  place,  nor  wealth,  nor  title. 
Lacks  the  man  my  friendship  owns ; 

His  distinction,  true  and  vital, 

Shines  supreme  o'er  crowns  and  thrones. 

Where  true  love  bestows  its  sweetness, 
Where  true  hiendship  lays  its  hand, 

Dwells  all  greatness,  all  completeness. 
All  the  wealth  of  every  land. 

Man  is  greater  than  condition, 

■  And  where  man  himself  bestows. 
He  begets,  and  gives  position 
To  the  gentlest  that  he  knows. 

Neither  miracle  nor  fable 

Is  the  water  changed  to  wine ; 

Lords  and  ladies  at  my  table 

Prove  Love's  simplest  fare  divine. 

.)8.t 


TO   A   SLEEPING   SINGEK.  485 

And  if  these  accept  my  duty, 

If  the  loved  lay  homage  own, 
I  have  won  all  worth  and  beauty  ; 

I  have  found  the  magic  stone. 


TO  A  SLEEPING  SINGER. 

Love  in  her  heart,  and  song  upon  her  lip — 

A  daughter,  friend,  and  wife — 

She  lived  a  beauteous  life, 
And  love  and  song  shall  bless  her  in  her  sleep. 
The  flowers  whose  language  she  interpreted, 

The  delicate  airs,  calm  eves,  and  starry  skies 

That  touched  so  sweetly  her  chaste  sympathies, 
And  all  the  grieving  souls  she  comforted, 

Will  bathe  in  separate  sorrows  the  dear  mound, 

Where  heart  and  harp  lie  silent  and  profound. 
Oh,   Woman  !   all  the  songs  thou'st  left  to  us 

We  will  preserve  for  thee,  in  grateful  love ; 
Give  thou  return  of  our  affection  thus. 

And  keep  for  us  the  songs  thou  singst  above ! 

K2 


STEDMAN. 


CHAELIE. 


God  gave  him,  and,  from  year  to  year. 
The  precious  gift  yet  dearer  grew, 
And  breathed  his  gentle  spirit  through 

Tiio  beings  he  was  sent  to  cheer. 


-181) 


CHARLIE.  487 

We  watched  liitn  : — so  tlie  loving  gaze 
Upon  tlio  petals  of  a  rose, 
That  spread  and  sweeten,  as  it  grows 

To  blossom  in  the  donor's  praise. 

One  day,  before  our  wondering  eyes. 

Expanded  by  an  inward  power, 

The  infant  bud  became  a  flower 
In  all  the  hues  of  Paradise  ! 

The  gift  was  taken,  in  full  bloom  ; 

But  flowers  their  odors  leave  behind. 

Diffusing  all   the  tempered  wind 
With  Memory's  sweet  and  sad  perfume. 


L'ENVOI. 

"Plus  Ultra!"    on  the  restless,  Western  main, 
Striving  to  reach  the  unattained  we  steer, 
Like  Him  whose  holy  faith,  o'ermastering  fear, 

Went  forth  to  find  a  world  for  doubting  Spain. 

Lo!    where  rich  heralds  come,  a  beckoning  train, — ■ 
Bright  floating  boughs,  with  berries  red  and  rare, — ■ 
Strange  birds,  with  whispering  song  and  plumage  fair, — 

The  movine  light  which  fires  his  wildered  brain. 

He  found  his  tropic  goal,  in  morning  light ! 

But  where  is  ours?    Behold  its  glorious  beams, — 

Our  Country's  Future  !     In  that  mirror  bright 
Rises  the  new  creation  of   our  dreams  ; 

While  the  long,  reverent  train  of   Poets  come 

To  invoke  thv  loftiest  song,  bright  land  of  Freedom's  home. 

H.  C. 


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